out the window.
I kept twisting around, trying to see into economy.
A curtain blocked everything.
As we climbed above Boston, I imagined Grandma all the way back in row 34.
I began wondering about something I should probably have asked years earlier.
Why had she stopped flying?
I knew only pieces of the story about my grandfather.
His name was Frank Walsh.
He had worked as an aircraft mechanic at Logan for thirty-four years.
According to Mom, he could listen to an engine and know something was wrong before
