But I think about him frequently now.
I picture an aircraft mechanic crossing the country to meet his newborn granddaughter.
I imagine him reaching into his jacket when he realized something was wrong.
Not because he wanted something for himself.
But because he wanted to give courage to the frightened child beside him.
I think about that boy carrying those silver wings into adulthood and eventually becoming a pilot.
And I picture Grandma returning to the same window twenty-seven years later.
Then shifting aside so another frightened child could look through it with her.
Airlines separate their cabins into classes.
First.
Business.
Economy.
Some seats are wider.
Some recline farther.
Some include better meals and finer glasses.
But Flight 212 taught me something.
The best seat aboard an airplane isn’t necessarily the one with the highest price.
Sometimes it is simply the place where another person makes certain you don’t have to face your fear alone.
My grandfather understood that.
Eventually, Grandma understood it too.
It just took me thirty-four rows to understand it.
