"We all want to be cared for in this way. We want the gummy bears, but more than that we want people who care if we have the gummy bears. All we have are the lives we have," Emma Nadler writes. (iStock)

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On a recent flight to San Diego to visit my Aunt Janice, I had three hours to ponder civility (which is approximately two hours too long). Do people care for others less once they enter the liminal space that is actual space?

The unbridled coughing from the person behind me was spectacular, and not in a good way. And, of course, there is the question of our divided country, of our recent election, of our torn allegiances with our neighbors, families and fellow Americans. How do we come together now? How do we cross a seemingly endless bridge?

On this plane ride, I felt for my fellow passenger, who seemed quite sick. But I also didn’t want to bring this illness to my aging aunt, who has enough problems. The woman did not cover her cough. At a minimum, I want people to at least pretend to care about other people.

My husband, Cedar, and I had accepted my aunt’s invitation to visit as a break from caregiving (our daughter’s disabilities require around-the-clock support). We were tired — exhausted — and Janice generously offered to put us up in a hotel while our kids were well cared for at home.

A few mornings after we arrived, Cedar and I sat with Aunt Janice while the California sun streamed over our faces. The conversation veered to our oldest child’s fondness for a well-worn bear. Janice, who is 80 years old, exclaimed, “A love for stuffed animals?! That’s from me!” As if such a thing is genetically coded. But then again, who am I to say that it’s not in our DNA, or that it is not a miracle, that both of them have stuffies with similar places in their hearts? Why can’t it be, as Janice often says, “signs and wonders, ordained by God?”

The next evening, at a Mexican restaurant, the room was roaring, and that was before the mariachi band. Janice recited a prayer over our dinner, as she often does. Janice was raised Jewish, like me, and later settled on Catholicism.

My aunt is also conservative politically. We’ve had conversations about the differences between us, which mostly have landed in the agreeing-to-disagree category. We talked, we listened (mostly, the best we could since we still don’t share the same approach regarding what is needed for this country). It was not easy. Yet, the relationship is more important to me.

Cedar and I nodded along to her prayer. When Janice got to the “Jesus redeems” part, we smiled. If I’d been younger, I would have said this prayer is not for me. But this time, I relaxed back into my chair. Faith takes all forms.

Even though it was hard to hear each other amid all the noise, my aunt never complained. She simply said, “It’s too loud for me to get into that,” regarding a move to a retirement community. “I’m too tired.” This was at 5:30 p.m. And, “I’ll tell you another time.” Her voice was soft with acceptance. She said she was happy that we got a table. “It’s the busiest the host has ever seen on a weeknight — because it’s a holiday weekend.”

“Really?” I asked. “What holiday?” I shrugged, and she shrugged back.

I wish I hadn’t challenged her. If someone wants to believe it’s a holiday weekend, why not let them? That seems like a good rule for being alive.

Now, in the wisdom of her later years, my aunt was content wearing a parka and a scarf indoors. This is what aging gives us — so many surprises, including, apparently, endless layers of clothing. And, if we are lucky, an increased ability to let life be what it is: dramatically imperfect.

I found out later it was Veterans Day.

On the flight back home, Cedar and I splurged for Comfort Plus. (Usually, when we sit in coach, we crack jokes about being in Comfort Minus.) The flight attendant asked, “Would you like any snacks?”

“Do you have gummy bears?” I responded. I didn’t tell him this, but I wanted to bring some back for my son.

“I can get them. I won’t forget.” The flight attendant’s eyes locked with mine, as if this was some sort of vow. It almost moved me to tears, embarrassingly enough, on this plane that had no Wi-Fi and smelled like pepperoni pizza.

I looked away right after I thanked him. I didn’t need to get all vulnerable in row 11. It wasn’t exactly a supportive environment. Shortly beforehand my seat mates were visibly annoyed — complete with sighs and huffing out to the aisle — when I had to go to the bathroom.

Who could blame them? Who could blame anyone on this glorified bus in the sky? Who could blame any of us for our harsh looks, our drinks in the afternoon, our coughing all over each other? As if whatever happens here stays here, which, of course, it doesn’t. Whatever happens gets absorbed into our worldview and our view of each other. We carry that with us. All of it.

The flight attendant returned with the gummy bears. “I didn’t forget,” he said warmly. He handed me two packs with reverence, as if he was gifting me something that could save my life. It didn’t save my life, but it helped.

We all want to be cared for in this way. We want the gummy bears, but more than that we want people who care if we have the gummy bears. All we have are the lives we have. The lives we are flying away from, the lives we are returning home from. The mistakes we’ve made, the choices we now have to live with, regardless of how much time has passed. It’s difficult to be alive; that much is true for anyone flying, anyone landing home, anyone hoping that this vacation or work trip will make their life better or even more bearable — or less exhausting — in some way.

We can make life more bearable for each other through small exchanges. Maybe it is as simple as finding the snacks. We can keep trying to show up and empathize, even with our differences. We can smile and nod when someone needs to get out to go to the bathroom, knowing that in 45 minutes or less the roles will likely change.

Later, back at home as Cedar crept downstairs to check on our daughter, I scooped up my son in a hug. Then I exclaimed, “I almost forgot these. For you.” I extended my hand with the gummy bears.

My son took one look and said, “Those are gross.” I sighed.

I wanted him to know what this candy represented, but I couldn’t fully explain it. I wanted him to know that when we are apart, I hold him in my mind, sometimes in the form of free food. And most of all, I wanted him to understand that there are people out in the world who care about what matters — caring for one another. This force is stronger than political allegiance.

I took in my son’s nonchalance and reflected on my time away. I had relished kindness in many forms — my aunt who had sprung for our hotel, a comforting dinner together, and a flight attendant’s mission to offer the (rejected) luster of yellow dye and gelatin. There are still times when humans startle us with warmth. This makes everything worth it.

Who we are varies — some days we’re the cougher, and some days we are the coughed on. Some days, as Americans, we feel endlessly divided. But we can transcend the vitriol, the name-calling, the various forms of hate. At our best we lean deeply into the moment and tend to each other. Maybe it’s signs and miracles. Or maybe it’s love.

Emma Nadler is a Twin Cities-area psychotherapist, speaker, and the author of “The Unlikely Village of Eden: A Memoir.”