The concourses of airports, at least major ones, are like rivers composed of people, a constantly moving scene of the many varieties of humanity. The tall and morbidly obese priest in his black cossack, a huge wooden cross around his oversized neck, business people, the young men, they do seem to be uniformly young men, pushing infirm passengers to their gates in wheelchairs. There are the casually dressed, seeking comfort from the ever increasing rigors of air travel. Uniformed crew members walk by pulling their roller board suitcases behind them. At one point I worked in a jewelry kiosk in the airport. Whenever the store was slow there was always something to look at.
I become increasingly aware of my age. 75 to 80 percent of the people flowing past appear to be younger than I. It doesn't sadden me, there is no feeling of melancholy, the day before a coworker, several decades my junior, told me he was envious that I came of age in a less chaotic era. A time when cooperation had been overrun by competition. A time before rocks had been overturned allowing the hate and division long hidden underneath to slither out and take root.
I look back in sorrow and anger at what we have become and fear what may lie ahead.
