Dad was already dressed when I came downstairs at five in the morning. His suitcase stood beside the door, and his passport, boarding pass, and wallet were carefully arranged on the kitchen table. Our flight wasn’t until eleven, but at eighty-one, he liked to be prepared. Since Mom passed away two years earlier, traveling had become harder for him. He still enjoyed crossword puzzles, drove his own car, and regularly beat us at cribbage, but crowded places made him uncomfortable. That morning, I noticed him repeatedly turning a tiny silver keychain shaped like a pair of airplane wings. He had carried it for as long as I could remember. Whenever I asked about it, he simply said it belonged to an old job.

My sister Beth drove us to the airport. Dad sat quietly in the passenger seat, holding his hands together, occasionally glancing out the window. When we entered the terminal, I noticed his jaw tighten. He took a deep breath and followed me toward security. I kept his boarding pass ready and reminded him to remove his belt and empty his pockets. He nodded patiently, just as he had once patiently taught hundreds of students during his thirty-four years as a physics teacher. I thought the morning would be difficult enough without anyone making it worse.