first officer.
Every March fourteenth, they flew Flight 212 together.
For Frank.
“I’m retiring soon,” Gene told Grandma.
“This was going to be one of our last March fourteenth flights together.”
He placed his hand over hers.
“I always hoped we would find you before then.”
Grandma’s eyes filled again.
“He wasn’t alone?” she whispered.
Gene shook his head.
“No, ma’am.”
“He had people with him.”
Then he smiled gently.
“And he had a frightened little boy holding his hand.”
For twenty-seven years, Grandma had carried the image of Frank
