You Don't Learn of Death in an Airport

You don't learn of tragedy in an airport.
You only hear of it.

Someone came to collect us, to relay the news,
but in one ear and out the other,
for you don't learn of tragedy in an airport.
I saw your feet fail you,
I saw your sobs overtake you,
but I wasn't watching, I didn't listen.
I only saw, I only heard.
The silence was deafening,
The edges of reality started to blur.

Time stopped.
Drugged, numbed.

Everyone watched us.
We didn't notice, wouldn't have cared anyway.
All we knew was we felt empty,
but couldn't put a finger on why.
Tears came then,
as automatic reaction,
but devastation came later,
as response to knowledge.

When we sat in your house, ghostly and chilled.
When you didn't greet us, like you always used to.
That is when we learned,
That is when we knew.
When our normal changed.
When vacancy could be felt,
That is when tragedy hit,
like a brick to a already tender stomach
like oxygen deserting searching lungs.
leaving you gasping, winded, stunned.

We were told of your death in the terminal.
Ironic.
But we didn't know,
'till you weren't around,
'till we had to go on without you.
Until we left the airport.