As the moon is to the man

I'm in line, backpack strapped to my back, pushing my duffel bag with my feet, and pulling my carry-on toward the united airlines business class check in. I was too cheap, or too sane, to pay $3 for a luggage cart. Sanity or disturbance is an argument I often have with myself. I check in the duffel bag, check in the carry on, and leave the counter with just my back pack and boarding pass. As I walk towards the gate, I see a vaguely familiar face. A bit older, a bit thinner, quite a bit more worn. But yes, it is her, Mary. My first instinct is to bolt pass her, pretend I don't see her, as I often do when I see an person from my past. But I'm trying to get past my past -- so to speak -- and make my past, my past and not let my past be my future. So to speak.

"Hey Mary", I say, as I tap her on the shoulder. Hey eyes show nothing, certainly not recognition. A beat passes. Did I make a mistake? Then they eyes open wider, not so much in a smile, but more of a bemused interest. "Vince...hey...how are you?"

We exchange pleasantries and then her line moves and the line movement becomes the most important thing and we are forced to say goodbye and move on with our day.

But the funny thing about airport lines is they are migratory. I next see Mary in the security line, waiting to get into the gate, and then at gate when she sits down next to me.

"Are you going to London?" she asks curiously, and I imagine her thinking how uncomfortable it would be to be on the same plane together. What if we ended up sitting next to each other. And then getting our luggage together. And then sharing a cab. Dinner? I imagine she imagines this because these thoughts raced through my head as I saw her approaching. These thoughts and more.

"Beijing", I say, and our shared relief is almost palatable. We only have to put up with each other for the next 30 minutes or so.

Mary was my sister in law before the two bad things happened. Two bad things. Or was it three? Or one? Depends on how you count, I guess. I count it as two. But the two are not equal in the way the moon is not equal to the man. I haven't seen Mary since a week after the second bad thing happened. It's been six years, almost to the day. She's remarried since then, had her third child, and moved to a suburb of a suburb. We exchange stories of family and work. She's eager to learn about my kids, my life in Beijing. Not so eager to learn about my wife. She tells me more than once that I seem happy. People say this to me from time to time and what I think they are really saying is I don't seem as unhappy as I used to.

Our time together is starting to wine down and I'm wondering if we will just stick to pleasantries, which would be ok for me, but in my fear of not being in control I form a question about the past. But, it seems Mary senses this so she takes a preemptive strike of her own and reaches into her backpack and takes out a notebook with a green cover. On the cover of the notebook is a large white label and on the white label, in large familiar handwriting is "June-October 1991". I gave Mary that notebook the last time I saw her, it seems weird that she would have it with her today.

Mary says, "I take it with me when I travel", and I look at her curiously, and then I "get it", but before she realizes I do, she explains why. "I understand", I say.

"You asked me to return this to you", and I did on that day six years ago. She starts to hand it to me, but I wave her off, I don't need it anymore. Besides, I have many of such notebooks one of which is in my backpack. I contemplate offering to swap, but then think better of it.

She asked me questions her sister. Questions with an edge. Questions without an answer or at least an answer that I wanted to give.

"Do you remember what happened after you gave me the notebook", she asked. I nodded, how could I forget. Mary told me the funny thing was she felt no remorse, no guilt over those moments. She asked me if I did. No, I said. And it was the truth. I told her I didn't know if that was a testament to our sanity our our disturbance. She smiled a familiar smile.

"Why do you think that is? Why don't we feel badly about that?" she asked.

"I don't know. If I had to guess, I would say because my guilt was...is..already accounted for."

"Yes", she nods.

They call my flight, I stand, Mary stands and give me a hug. Her body feeling vaguely familiar to me, but slightly smaller, not as tall, but the bone structure, the stature, the essence very similar. I feel an urge to kiss her on the forehead and then for a second I think she might kiss me. We step back, I say "Let's keep in touch", "Yea, email me", she says. "I will", I say. "I mean it, really, email me...or just call". she says.

I nod, smile, turn and walk away. Neither one of us has any intention of keeping in touch.

As the moon is to the man.