He was young in the picture, dressed in a sailor’s uniform and laughing at something beyond the camera.
And then there were the silver wings.
A tiny tarnished aviation pin had always been fastened to Grandma’s purse.
When I was young, I used to rub my thumb across it while sitting beside her during church.
One day, I asked where she had gotten it.
“Your grandfather gave it to me.”
“Why?”
She paused before answering.
“Because I was frightened, and he wanted me to remember that I could be brave.”
I was only six.
That explanation was enough for me then, and eventually I forgot about it.
Until Flight 212.
Roughly two hours after departure, I finally left my seat.
I walked through business class and entered economy.
It felt almost like stepping onto another aircraft.
The seats were narrower.
The aisle was tighter.
Passengers slept uncomfortably, read books, watched movies, or tried to balance drinks on tiny tray tables.
I continued until I reached row 34.
Grandma sat beside the window.
She was staring into the endless blue sky.
Her purse remained pressed firmly against her chest.
A red-haired boy, maybe eight or nine years old, sat next to her.
An airline badge hung around his neck.
UNACCOMPANIED MINOR.
His name was Oliver.
A coloring book rested in his hands, although he wasn’t using it.
His knee bounced with nervous energy.
The aisle seat beside him was empty.
I crouched down near them.
“You okay, Grandma?”
She turned toward me.
For one unsettling moment, she seemed somewhere else.
Then she smiled.
“I’m fine.”
She wasn’t.
Her hands trembled.
Her eyes were wet.
I’m a nurse.
I know what “fine” looks like.
This wasn’t it.
“Are you feeling sick?”
“No.”
“You’re shaking.”
“It’s just nerves.”
The boy next to her lifted his head.
“I’m nervous too.”
Grandma turned to him.
Her expression softened instantly.
“Are you flying alone?”
He nodded.
“My mom put me on the plane in Boston. My dad’s meeting me in San Francisco.”
Then, more quietly, he admitted,
“I don’t like when the airplane shakes.”
“Neither do I,” Grandma said.
Oliver looked surprised.
“You don’t?”
“No. But my husband used to repair airplanes. He taught me that turbulence is like driving over bumps in a road. The airplane is built to handle them.”
“Did he fix this airplane?”
Grandma turned toward the window.
