This is only part-fiction. I actually saw the woman asleep in the airport in one of many out-of-place rocking lawn chairs, but I made up her story.
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The long, bleak hallway has a windowed wall to one side that looks out upon a sea of tarmac. The black shadows of the window divisions contrast sharply with the glowing white sunlight, creating a pattern on the dark gray floor that is reminiscent of patchwork.
White-wooden porch chairs are clustered by the wall opposite the windows, but one is by the glass, flooded in sunlight. In this chair lone sits an old woman. Her clothes are varying shades of blue. Her curly white head leans back over the back of her chair, the wooden edge nestling into the crook of her neck. Her sleeping face wears an expression of peaceful exhaustion.
Her five Canadian grandchildren tired her out this past week with endless games of hide-and-seek and freeze-tag. Her knees got more wear that past week than they were used to and on sight of the rocking chair—so much like her own back in Miami—she had collapsed into slumber. Sweet, deep slumber, unbroken by small children’s requests and complaints!
Yet she dreams of little Andy’s big green eyes smiling at her through thick blonde lashes. And Rachel’s sock-puppets dance before her closed eyes. The thought of her grandchildren brings a sleepy smile to the face of the old woman and she almost wishes that she should wake to the chortles and giggles of two-year-old Cameron.
Though their games were tiring, the excursion couldn’t have been all that bad for their grandmother. She had been feeling somewhat lazy before her trip, what with her sore knee and all. Lately she hadn’t done much but sit and sleep all day, getting up occasionally to feed the cat or prepare herself some coffee. The well-earned exhaustion she feels now is welcomed, compared to the hazy, groggy sleepiness of the weeks prior to her visit.
She opens her eyes and stands. Her knees do not emit the painful creaks that she has come to consider normal. Her back, too, feels less stiff than she remembers. She gathers her bags and walking stick. She feels as though her grandchildren’s’ youthfulness may have been contagious. Perhaps she should start a babysitting business.
As she walks through the airport, she thinks of how much small children would love the shallow beach down the block from her house. And her cat is friendly, no doubt good with children. She leans on her walking stick less and less as her mind wanders. Her legs become more and more powerful and stiff pains evaporate. Hope glistens in her eyes with newly-found vividness.
...(hopefully...)
