The jolt of the wheels of the aircraft touching down woke me with a start, and as the plane ground to a stop, I saw you were sleeping, too. Or I thought you were. You’d pulled the hood of your sweatshirt up over your head and down into your eyes. The plane filled with the sounds of cell phone notifications coming in as Airplane Mode was turned off, and you picked up your phone from the pocket of the seat in front of you.
After texting my husband, 'Just landed!' I tucked my phone away and started gathering my things. That’s when I noticed your screen—dozens of messages. You opened one. 'I’m so sorry for your loss…'
Your head bent over, and you pulled your hood further over your face. An announcement declared that we were still waiting for a gate, and that several people were trying to make close connections, and could we let them depart first once we began to depart the plane.
The woman you boarded with spoke to the flight attendant and gave you a nod as she moved briskly down the aisle. Then I noticed your head shaking, your hand clutching the white airline-branded cocktail napkin that had accompanied your drink, dabbing your eyes, silently sobbing.
I felt my chest tighten as my heart broke for you. I debated what to do. I was a stranger,
intruding on your private grief made public by the cruel lottery of airline seating. And yet, I wanted to hug you.
To tell you, I remember flying the reverse route from Chicago to Florida with my 14-day-old infant son in my lap on the way to my father’s funeral. Receiving
texts and notes with condolences expressed sincerely and me, grateful but too numb with grief and the exhaustion of the first weeks of motherhood to open them.
To say that I feel terrible you had the middle seat away from your companion, that had I known, I would have traded so you could sit together.
To say that grief is like a river that sometimes feels manageable and other times knocks you off your feet when you least expect it, days, weeks, years later.
To say I’m so, so sorry.
I said none of this as this man sat mere inches away, shaking soundlessly. I reached into my bag, found the standard-mom-issue travel pack of tissues, and pulled one from the plastic. I gently touched his arm and offered it to him.
“Would you like a tissue?” I asked. His eyes met mine for a moment. Big, brown eyes, set in a dark face lined with sadness. “Oh, thank you,” he said. “Thank you so much.”
And with that, he began to cry more audibly, as if something broke loose and the dam simply overflowed. I squeezed his arm softly. “Of course,” I said, handing him the rest of the pack. “Maybe you’ll want these, too.”
He nodded under his hood, taking the tissues and sliding them into his pocket.
The cabin lights flashed, and an announcement rang out that we’d arrived, asking us to let those making connections disembark first. He shifted his weight to stand, climbing over the man on the aisle, reaching for his duffle bag above. His eyes caught mine again. His hood was down now, his exposed face glistening with unwiped tears, eyes swollen.
From the aisle, he turned and spoke to me, his voice shaking, just above a whisper. “Thank you so much. It means more than you know.”
My voice caught in my throat, and my eyes welled. All I could manage was a weak smile and a nod. I touched my hand over my heart; he nodded and was gone. Down the aisle and off to hopefully make his connection. Off to what I can only assume was going home from an event commemorating a loss or heading into one.
It’s been a few weeks since I, too, took my bags, left that airplane, hailed a cab, and traveled home into the arms of my waiting family. That evening, I held my sons close, hugged my husband a little longer, and melted into the comfort of home.
Man in the Middle Seat, I have thought of you every day since then. I send you peace. I wish you well. I hope your journey ended in the warm embrace of those who love you.