My grandmother surprised me at Boston Logan by giving up the first-class seat I had spent nearly a year saving to buy. For her eightieth birthday, she had asked for a gift: a trip from Boston to San Francisco on March 14, Flight 212. I booked her 3A. Instead, at the gate, she quietly asked for seat 34A in economy. When I asked why, she squeezed my hand very carefully and said she wanted to sit in the back.
I knew Grandma Ruth still hated flying, but I never knew why. My grandfather, Frank, had died twenty-seven years earlier, the day after I was born. Everyone told me it was a heart attack. I went back to row 34. Grandma sat beside a nervous boy traveling alone, holding her purse tightly. Then a pilot stopped beside her, stared at the silver wings pinned to her purse, and asked, “Mrs. Walsh, why did you choose seat 34A?”
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