“Dad?”
“Yeah, buddy?”
“I thought I was helping Nolan pretend.” His voice had grown soft in recent weeks. “I didn’t know he was helping me believe we’d all get there someday.”
I leaned closer and sat beside him.
“I didn’t know he was helping me believe we’d all get there someday.”
Stella lowered herself onto the other side.
We gathered around our son while the scrapbook remained open across our knees.
***
Mike died that winter, six months after our flight.
On his last afternoon, snow covered the backyard and softened the shape of the soccer goal.
I sat beside his bed holding the crayon boarding pass.
His breathing had become shallow.
Mike died that winter, six months after our flight.
“Where are we going?” I asked.
Mike’s eyes opened slightly.
“Somewhere better.”
I placed the pass inside his hand.
My son’s final flight ended in California.
The one he gave away is still taking off.
The one he gave away is still taking off.
