it, wearing a sailor’s uniform and laughing at something outside the frame.
And then there were the silver wings.
A small tarnished aviation pin had always been attached to Grandma’s purse.
When I was little, I used to run my thumb over it while sitting beside her in church.
One day I asked where it came from.
“Your grandfather gave it to me.”
“Why?”
She thought for a moment.
“Because I was frightened, and he wanted me to remember that I could be brave.”
I was six.
I accepted that answer and forgot about it.
Until Flight 212.
About two hours after takeoff, I finally got out of my seat.
I walked through business class and into economy.
It felt like entering a different airplane.
The seats were tighter.
The aisle narrower.
People were sleeping awkwardly, reading, watching movies, or balancing drinks on tiny tray tables.
I went all the
