Others held one sentence.
Thank you for reminding me to imagine somewhere better.
Some notes were long.
Near the end, we found Captain Harris’s page. Beside his pass, he had written:
Pilots are taught to trust instruments when clouds hide the horizon. Children like you remind us to trust hope for the same reason.
Mike traced the ink with one finger.
Then Stella turned to the final page.
A crayon drawing rested beneath a clear protective sheet.
Children like you remind us to trust hope for the same reason.
The paper was creased. The airplane had one large wing and three floating windows.
Mike’s original boarding pass.
The one he had made for Nolan.
A nurse had saved it after Nolan completed treatment and went home.
Beneath it were the words:
Hope sometimes arrives before the plane does.
The airplane had one large wing and three floating windows.
Mike stared at the drawing for a long time.
His fingers rested on the plastic cover.
“Dad?”
“Yeah, buddy?”
“I thought I was helping Nolan pretend.” His voice had grown soft in recent weeks. “I didn’t know he was helping me believe we’d all get there someday.”
I leaned closer and sat beside him.
“I didn’t know he was helping me believe we’d all get there someday.”
Stella lowered herself onto the other side.
We gathered around our son while the scrapbook remained open across our knees.
***
Mike died that winter, six months after our flight.
On his last afternoon, snow covered the backyard and softened the shape of the soccer goal.
I sat beside his bed holding the crayon boarding pass.
His breathing had become shallow.
Mike died that winter, six months after our flight.
“Where are we going?” I asked.
Mike’s eyes opened slightly.
“Somewhere better.”
I placed the pass inside his hand.
My son’s final flight ended in California.
The one he gave away is still taking off.
The one he gave away is still taking off.
