by L. Dinkens Stewart

Created on: August 03, 2008

PASSPORT

James Talon looked down at a picture he held in the palm of his hand.

"She's only nineteen years old, but she's as smart as anyone I know" He paused, tilted his chin upward and inhaled slowly. "Now look," he continued "this was the last picture she took. It was just before she went to that damned country. She's in school and she's going to be a doctor, a cultural anthropologist. Patricia Talon is her name. She speaks English, Spanish, Japanese and Italian fluently. She's a junior and her birthday is tomorrow. Just bring her home, please. Please." The man's forehead wrinkled as his eyes closed. His pleading erupted into incoherent emotion. He wondered how pitiful he must look to the agents in the room and quickly gathered his composure.

"Now look dammit. You bring my baby girl home, you here. Do your dang blamed job and bring her home!" He began to sob again. "Please bring her home. Her birthday is tomorrow. She promised she'd be back in time for her birthday. She's all I have left. Please." His cries died into whimpers as a final tear escaped the rim of his left eye. It eased down his face, kissing the crevice of his nose, before dangling from the graying hairs of his moustache. Just as the tear leaped to its final destination in the cracks of the worn linoleum, James' expression blanked. He stared into the sparse crowd and pursed his lips. Solace. His angelic smile remained even as the paramedics manipulated his lifeless body.

Patricia heard a deafening blast from the weapon of one of her captors.

A million questions flood my brain. "Oh my God, what was that? Where is Sharon?"

"Sharon," I cry weakly. "How are we going to get home?" I think. I look through a small void in my blindfold and glimpse Sharon standing beside one of the kidnappers holding a smoking rifle held to her neck.

"Sharon are you alright?" I call out, beginning to feel a burning pulse rush through my body. Sharon doesn't respond. She stands, speechless, motionless, gazing into my chest. I am afraid to try to look down because I know.

I think about Daddy back in Houston all alone. I think about my last days with him and Eric, our final moments in the airport. Playing cards and laughing.

"Now you be careful," he ordered, trying to mask the pain and anxiety so obvious in his baritone voice. "I love you baby girl," he said as I passed through the security gate. I remember. At least he knows I love him. At least I know he loves me.

And Eric. How I could have ever doubted that we were meant to be escapes me now.

"Thanks," he whispered in my ear. I pulled away and searched the depths of his expression for clarity.

"For what?"

"For everything." His eyes, which were normally barely visibly, had suddenly become as vast and clear as the Houston heavens on a cool, September night. He playfully kissed my nose. I remember.

"Seor, necessito agua. Me permite beber agua, por favor Seor." I feel the muscles in my face tighten as the words sloppily stumble off my tongue. They all ignore me. Even Sharon turns away. I am struck by the curious thought that people avoid death and the dying at all cost. In every culture it seems to hold true. At the same time, I feel badly for leaving Sharon this way. Solace.

I take Daddy's aged hand into my own and feel the sharp edge of a piece of paper scratch the base of my thumb. It is my passport photo. He looks at me and nods his head. I sigh and rest my face against his shoulder. I had surely missed him.

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