Leaving Boulder is emotional. I’ve fallen in love with this town. Our previous visits were short and full of tasks. Assembling IKEA furniture, attending workshops, picking John up to take him to the World Cup Downhill. Only enough extra time for a meal or two. This time, unseasonable weather brought out the best in everything and everyone. We had time to explore the hiking trails, drive through neighborhoods, meet people. I always tried to picture a place where John could live. He wasn’t a big city guy. He wasn’t a beach guy. This town was perfect for him. I could picture him spending his life here.

Driving to the airport Paul alternates between the Cal vs. Colorado football game and the Oakland A’s vs. Texas game on the radio. It’s a nice distraction when I can focus on it, but I can’t. I miss scoring plays. My mind drifts in an out of what could have been. Paul is out-of-it too. Exhausted and emotionally drained. We miss the toll way turnoff and I have trouble explaining how to get back on it. We are not our usual efficient tag-team travel partners.

I look out the window at the other cars. I picture John driving in the little red Honda Fit, Ally the dog riding shotgun. He was very late to the airport on his last visit home, just over a month ago. Any time my kids travel, I picture them en-route to the airport, checking in, boarding, looking out the window at the view, landing. The cruel reality settles in. John won’t be speeding along this road to the airport ever again. He won’t do anything again.

I feel lucky we make it back to the rental car return without incident. “Do not operate large machinery” should be a directive for us. We should not be driving. We are barely functioning.

The shuttle is waiting as we shove the last bits of stuff into our bags that had been rattling around in the car. We are overburdened. The driver is respectfully patient. She offers help, defusing the tension from the other shuttle riders.

Our bags go in the rack. I am carrying the tote containing John’s ashes. It’s heavy. I wonder how heavy. John, at two weeks old heavy? At six weeks old heavy? At three months old heavy? Paul offers to hold it. I can’t let go. I want him near me. My boy is in this box on my lap. How can it be? I’m taking my boy as dust in a box in a bag on an airplane. Precious cargo. I think of a sign hanging in the back of a car. I think of a baby car seat. I think of the care in choosing just the right quilted cover for that newborn car seat. I think of carefully practicing how to buckle it into the back seat of our car 22 years ago. The wave comes. Panic, tears, instability, lightheadedness.

Somehow we arrive at baggage check. We can’t remember what the funeral director told us about flying with human remains. He told us six days ago. It feels like six years ago. There are rules. I try to speak, to tell the agents I have my boy in a box in a bag. But the emotion speaks first. They start to cry. They say, “No, it’s not a concern to the airline, it’s a TSA issue.” The airport is quiet. Apparently Saturday night is a good time to fly out of one of the nations biggest hubs. They finish our check-in in silence. They guide us toward security. The airport echoes with silence.

Still through tears, we pass through the particularly official looking TSA I.D. checker. I watch as my boy in a box in a bag goes through the x-ray. I think of the ultrasound 22+ years ago. “This is your baby’s heart. See all four chambers? His head measures just right for 18 weeks.” Then he rotated and we caught a glimpse of his gender. We were having a boy.

I can’t control the tears any more. I can’t handle any more memories, any more hard things. I can’t do this.