Grandma turned eighty-one recently.
She told me what she wanted for her birthday.
San Francisco.
March fourteenth.
Flight 212.
I booked the tickets immediately.
Economy.
Row 34.
I didn’t bother looking at first class.
Because I finally understood.
I hadn’t wasted money buying Grandma that original first-class ticket.
The expensive seat simply wasn’t the one she needed.
For twenty-seven years, she had been afraid to fly.
Afraid to return to the sky.
Afraid to see the mountains her husband had described.
Afraid of whatever truth waited in 34A.
What she
