I’m 73 years old, and my hands are shaking as I write this. It’s not just because I’m old; it’s also because I’m still thinking about things that hurt. I buried Claire, my only daughter, three years ago. People who have lost a child know that life doesn’t just continue on. Every day can feel like a tremendous weight on your chest, telling you that part of your soul is missing. Time doesn’t heal the hurt. People say that grieving becomes easier with time, but they don’t explain that it never completely goes away. It merely stays out of sight until you least expect it.
When Claire died, I sealed myself off from the world. I didn’t answer the phone. I didn’t go to church anymore. I didn’t talk to the neighbors who used to wave to me from across the street. The four walls of my home and the quiet, still photos on the mantel became my complete world. They were images of a family that used to live there. My son-in-law Mark never gave up. He arrived even though he was upset. He would knock on my door, sometimes with food and sometimes simply to say hi. He would sit with me in silence, letting the quiet fill the space where words didn’t seem to work anymore.
Mark stared me directly in the eye one night as we sat across from each other at my kitchen table drinking coffee we didn’t want. He whispered softly, “Robert, come down to Charlotte.” Stay with us. “You need your family.”
I said, “I don’t belong anywhere anymore,” not to be dramatic but because I was sure I was cut off for good.
He didn’t hesitate when he said, “Yes, you do.” “You should be with me.” Together with us.”
He spoke something in a strong but gentle voice that got through. Even though I wanted to stay where I felt safe in my misery, I agreed. Two weeks later, I had a ticket to travel. I hadn’t been on an aircraft in a long time. I felt nauseated when I thought of airports, long lines, loud announcements, and people bumping into me. But I did give it a shot. I put on the dark jacket that Claire had given me for Father’s Day a long time ago very carefully the morning of the flight. It was valuable even if it was old. I hadn’t shaved in weeks, but I did it for the first time and whispered, “For you, kiddo,” while looking at a picture of Claire on my bedside. I went outside after that.
I believed it would be easier to travel to the airport than it was. When I got to the bus station, a group of boisterous young men made fun of my looks. Someone grabbed my arm and tore a small seam in my jacket. It wasn’t much, but it felt like they had taken Claire away from me. I tried not to show it. I kept going even though my hands were shaking and my chest felt tight. I could see that people were looking at me as I went to the airport. Some people were interested, while others were not. It might have been the jacket. It might have been the way I looked. Maybe I just looked like I didn’t belong.
I dropped my bag, fumbled with the bins, and almost tripped while trying to take off my shoes in line for security. No one helped me. Someone behind me muttered loudly and shouted something about those who are “too old to travel.” I didn’t say anything. I had already decided not to say anything until someone else did. I just wanted the flight to be over.
The flight attendants were courteous when I finally got on board, but I could tell they were looking at me. I took my time getting to my seat. The man next to me looked me up and down rapidly, then turned away and laughed to himself. I didn’t inquire why it was so funny. I closed my eyes and tried to remember when Claire was a little girl and placed her face against the window of the jet. “Daddy,” she cried once, “the clouds look like cotton candy!” That memory was the only soft spot in my thoughts.
It took a long time for the flight. I didn’t say anything. I didn’t move a lot. I just stayed there. When the skipper indicated we were going down, I was happy.
But then something happened that I didn’t see coming.
As we taxied to the gate, the captain spoke over the intercom. His steady, quiet voice echoed through the cabin. “Before we get off, I need to thank someone very special on board,” he continued.
I stopped because I didn’t know what was going on.
The captain went on to say, “This man is my father-in-law.” Three years ago, I lost my wife, who was his daughter. Robert has been my support and father figure, even if he is sad. He flew for the first time in decades to come live with us and get to know his family again. You may have seen him today. You may have had an unfavorable opinion of him. He is, however, the most adventurous person I know.
The plane was quiet. The noise of people conversing stopped. The judgment, the whispers, and the laughter all stopped. People turned to look at me carefully. Some folks were shocked. Some individuals started to clap. Then more folks joined in. Everyone in the cabin was rising and clapping in a few seconds.
What I witnessed was hard to believe. The man who had laughed at me earlier wiped his eyes. A woman across from me gently put her hand on my shoulder. I could barely breathe, not because I was terrified, but because it had been so long since I felt seen. Not like an old man who is unhappy and hunched over. Not like someone who doesn’t belong. But as a father. As a man who lost someone and still had the guts to get on a plane. As if they still mattered.
The applause didn’t make me feel anything. I had the idea that I might not be invisible after all. That maybe, even after all the pain, I may still find a place in the world. And when I stepped off that plane and started a new chapter in my life, I didn’t feel as alone.