I go through the line. I have no coherent thoughts, just a rush of feeling, like oversaturated, garish bursts of color. I look back and see my dad standing in the same spot, watching me go. He waves. I wave back. I used to see them, the criers, in the security line, and even though it was an acceptable place for public displays of grief and sadness, where everybody blatantly ignored and allowed for them, I had judged. What was wrong with those people? My guesses had been shallow. They were sad to leave vacation. They were scared of flying. They were drunk or high. They were the type of
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