CATHERINE-On Behalf of a Grateful Nation

Dear All,

I wrote this a few minutes ago, but these people were on my plane on September 12, 2012. I'll keep my promise...

Love to all,
Heather

CATHERINE-On Behalf of a Grateful Nation
In my prayers forever
Heather McKeown-Inflight

As I write this, I'm thinking of a young woman who will never cross the threshold of any plane again. However, on September twelfth, twenty-twelve, her parents did. They were on the tail end of a busy boarding. I don't remember where we were going, actually, so I guess I'll just say the airport code for that lost-to-memory destination was, AIC and say this stands for Anywhere In Country. After all, this scenario is played over and over again because the human remains of soldiers are usually accompanied by grieving parents who are in shock from loss and in awe of the finality of their child's mortality. So vital and then so dead all in one breath, one heartbeat. Like a nova, each casualty of war lights up the sky with their brilliance and then they're no more. Their flag draped caskets are separated in the final moments of the last goodbyes. The body is lowered into cold earth and Old Glory is snapped into a smaller version of itself and handed to the paralyzed mother. The coffin stays in a chosen spot. The parents leave their hearts atop the grave and leave with all that's left of their child's reason to live and die.

        Everyone in the seemingly endless procession were exuding happiness as they stepped off the jetbridge and into my galley. Each smiling person was greeted with my habitual welcoming phrases: “Welcome aboard my plane!” “How are YOU, today?” or “Are you going home or leaving home?” The responses came back accompanied by smiles and lighthearted one liners. “OH, it's Your plane?” “Fine, thank you.” “I'm leaving home!” or “I'm going home!” The mood was universally upbeat but when the couple I'm writing about boarded, it was as if ice water had flooded the plane. Just one look at their faces informed me that some unbearable tragedy had befallen both them. Their expressions were like stone and their movements wooden. I didn't greet them with words but I reached out to the woman with both hands to get a better feel for her situation. That's when I saw what was being carried in her hands. In her firm but gentle grasp was a triangular shaped material of red, white and blue, so neatly tucked and folded that it was difficult for me to envision this proud symbol in any other form. On her face, with skin so taught around her skull, she wore the color and texture of the newly embalmed. My hands arrived at her biceps and she noticed I was there.

        “Ma'am, if there's anything we can do for you on this flight, please, please let us know.”
Her eyes registered that I was standing in front of her but it was obvious she didn't see me. Her eyes, dulled by her new reality, were as vacant as someone who'd undergone a lobotomy. She gave a tiny half-nod, right-faced toward the center aisle and allowed her feet to march her out of my reach. The man who followed her, ashen and blank, his hands on her shoulders as much for support as for the need to be attached to a living being, matched her shuffling step as they made their way to a seat at the back of the plane.

        Towards the end of the flight, I passed the couple on the way to the back galley. A hand reached out and stopped me. Bending to hear their question, engines being a white noise but loud enough to force physical closeness when quiet customers talk, I heard, “Would it be alright if we got something from the overhead bin now?”

        “Just tell me what you would like and I'll get it down for you.” I responded.
“It's the flag. We'd just like to take it down and hold it for landing.” said the man.
Retrieving it, I was so surprised that this object had so much mass. It was heavy. It was very heavy for me. This was as much of a shock to me as any I'd ever experienced. So airy and featherweight is a raised flag billowing in a breeze that I'd never suspected one condensed would have a different physical impression. Handing it to the couple, I said, “On behalf of a grateful nation and a mother.” Four hands took that American flag from my two. With a silent nod of gratitude, I was dismissed as they cradled the object together. A threesome in their minds that would always be together. The heaviness in that folded material was the soul of their lost soldier.

        The landing, taxi to the gate and subsequent deplaning was aunremarkable until the mourning pair came abreast of me before deplaning. Silently the mother put her arms around my neck and embraced me tightly, holding me for the longest time, her head heavy on my shoulder, her arms locking me in place.

        “What was your child's name?” I whispered in her ear. “Catherine.”

        As I returned the hug, I made a promise, “I'll keep her in my prayers forever.”
It was a promise. It was a vow. It's the least I could do and the most. Forever. On behalf of a grateful nation and a mother. Forever.

Thank you Heather