The motel room phone rang loudly around 9 a.m., jolting us from our morning routines. In 1987, the only time that phone rang was for wake-up calls or noise complaints. Unfortunately, this call was neither.
Mom, seated sideways on the bed with her back to us, answered the phone. Her hushed conversation dragged on longer than expected. In the meantime, my brother, sister, and I bounced on the beds, flipping through channels and eagerly urging her to finish so we could head to the amusement parks.
When she finally hung up, I assumed she would apologize for taking so long, and we’d be off. Instead, she collapsed into tears, rushing to Dad’s side and sobbing into his shoulder. It was a sight I had never witnessed before.
Confused, I heard her utter words like “plane crash,” “fire,” and “Detroit,” which began to piece together a grim reality: My grandfather had been involved in a plane accident.
In the following days, snippets of information trickled in, mostly overheard whispers among the adults. I caught phrases about the pilot’s past issues and a passenger who had taken an earlier flight to surprise his son at his Little League game. As a nine-year-old, my mind was flooded with questions. Did the passengers know where the exits were? What happened to those who couldn’t escape? Was flying really safe? And why didn’t all planes just fall from the sky?
Fast forward to age 37, and the inquiries multiplied. My understanding of that tragic day is still colored by my childhood perspective, augmented by yellowed newspaper clippings. The plane had tilted while landing, its wing grazing the ground and causing it to flip before colliding with a concession truck near the terminal. Out of the 16 people on Northwest Airlink Flight 2268 from Cleveland to Detroit, nine lost their lives on March 4, 1987. Remarkably, my grandfather, a lifelong smoker sitting in the back smoking section, survived.
As a child, I dared not ask too many questions. I quickly learned that some topics were too painful for my mom to discuss—her father was at the center of this tragedy. Other details were simply not meant for young ears. The information was patchy, filtered through a mother’s instinct to shield her children while still needing a bit of protection herself.
Now, as a woman navigating the complexities of motherhood, I have a deep respect for the boundaries that exist between children and the harsher realities of life. Some concepts about death and suffering are so complicated that even adults often struggle with them. How does a mother explain why bad things happen to good people when she, too, grapples with the same questions?
Over the years, my curiosity morphed. I wondered if the passengers shared conversations about their lives before the accident. Did they recall safety protocols, or were they too engrossed in their magazines, enjoying a final drink? What was it like in those fleeting moments as the plane spiraled out of control? Did they pray for salvation? If so, whose God did they implore, and why were their prayers unanswered?
Eventually, the urgency of my questions waned, overshadowed by the distractions of adolescence—sleepovers, makeup, and boys replaced thoughts of that fateful day. But recently, those questions have resurfaced. Perhaps it’s a natural part of growing older, or maybe it’s because my husband travels for work, and I worry. Or it could be that my oldest son is now almost nine, the same age I was when the crash occurred, placing me in that poignant space of being both a daughter and a mother.
Regardless of the reasons, old questions have returned, joined by new ones. What thoughts occupied my grandfather during those terrifying seconds before impact? How did my grandmother respond to the devastating news? What toll did this tragedy take on my parents’ marriage? Did the survivors ever find peace, or were they forever haunted by the memories?
Some answers are known; my grandfather escaped through an exit, albeit with his limbs aflame. He lived for another 25 years, celebrating milestones like his 60th wedding anniversary and seeing four of his grandchildren marry. While I can no longer pose my questions directly to him, I can seek answers from my mom and grandma, who might now be more open to discussing what they once shielded me from.
Yet, as I navigate this middle stage of life—watching my parents age, comforting friends who have lost loved ones, and addressing my children’s inquiries about life and death—I realize that many of my questions about the plane crash will remain unanswered.
I find myself pondering the stories of the other passengers. The father who took an earlier flight to make it to his son’s game, the man with plans for a racquetball match, the husband with a wife and young children waiting at home—what were their lives like? Did they get to say “I love you” one last time before boarding, or were their final words lost in the chaos of daily life? And why did my grandfather survive while others did not?
What about those left behind? The little boy excited for his game, the friend waiting for a partner who never arrived, the wife with toddlers clinging to her leg as she prepared for a husband who would never walk through the door—how did they cope? How did they find the strength to face the days that followed, knowing their lives would never be the same?
Mom and I recently sifted through old news articles, hoping to uncover more about the incident and its impact on those affected. However, pre-Internet limitations and scarce details left us with more questions than answers.
As I navigate this complex phase of life—feeling both terrified and secure, confused and wise—I’ve come to accept that it’s okay for some questions to remain unanswered. It’s perfectly fine to acknowledge uncertainty and embrace a bit of mystery. Life is a delicate balance between taking risks and planning for the future. What truly matters is how we love—intensely and wholeheartedly—because we never know when our time may come. That much is clear.
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In summary, while some questions may linger in the shadows of our minds, what’s essential is to love deeply and fiercely, for life can change in an instant.
Keyphrase: plane crash memories
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