“I’m grateful.”
“Then why move?”
For a moment, she paused.
“Because sometimes comfort isn’t the most important thing.”
First class was called for boarding.
I glanced down at my ticket for 3B.
“Then I’ll move too.”
“No.”
Her answer came with unexpected firmness.
“I want you to keep your seat.”
“I’m not letting you sit alone.”
“Yes, you are.”
She tightened her hand around my arm.
“Please, Sam.”
Grandma almost never requested anything from me.
At seventy-eight, she would rather shovel snow from her own sidewalk than ask someone for assistance.
If she wanted this badly, there had to be a reason.
“Okay,” I said.
She smiled at me.
“Thank you.”
First class looked exactly as luxurious as the advertisements promised.
Wide gray seats.
Real glassware.
Thick pillows.
For illustration purposes only
Before departure, a flight attendant offered me orange juice.
I felt awful.
Seat 3A remained empty until nearly everyone else had boarded.
Then a businessman wearing a gray suit sat down in it while speaking on his phone.
He never once glanced through the window.
I kept turning around, attempting to see the economy cabin.
The curtain prevented me from seeing anything.
As the plane climbed away from Boston, I pictured Grandma sitting all the way back in row 34.
And I started thinking about something I probably should have asked much earlier.
Why had she stopped flying?
I knew only fragments of the story involving my grandfather.
His name was Frank Walsh.
For thirty-four years, he had worked at Logan as an aircraft mechanic.
Mom said he could hear an engine running and recognize that something was wrong before anyone else discovered the problem.
He died during the week I was born.
I was born March thirteenth, 1999.
He died March fourteenth.
Everyone had always told me it was a heart attack.
That was almost everything I knew.
Whenever I asked about it as a child, Grandma became quiet.
Mom usually redirected the conversation.
Only one photograph of Grandpa was displayed in Grandma’s house.
