On her way to bury her son, Margaret hears a voice from the past echo through the plane’s speakers. What begins as a journey of grief takes an unexpected turn, one that might just remind her that even in loss, life has a way of circling back with purpose.
My name is Margaret and I’m 63. And last month, I boarded a flight to Montana to bury my son.
Robert’s hand was on his knee, fingers twitching like he was trying to smooth something that wouldn’t flatten.
He’d always been the fixer, the one with duct tape and plans.
But today, he hadn’t said my name once.
But that morning, in that cramped little row, he felt like someone I used to know.
We had both lost the same person, but our grief moved in separate, quiet currents, never quite touching.
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