The phone in our motel room rang around 9 a.m., jolting us awake. In the late 1980s, such calls usually indicated either a wake-up call or a noise complaint, and sadly, this was neither.
My mom, perched sideways on the bed beside the nightstand, answered the call. She spoke softly for what felt like an eternity. Meanwhile, my brother, sister, and I occupied ourselves by jumping on the beds, watching TV, and pleading for her to finish so we could head to the amusement parks.
When she finally hung up, I expected her to apologize for taking so long, but instead, she broke down in tears, rushing to my dad and sobbing into his chest. It was the first time I had ever seen her cry.
Words like “plane crash,” “fire,” and “Detroit” tumbled from her lips, forming a narrative that was hard to comprehend: my grandpa had been involved in a plane crash in Detroit.
In the days that followed, information trickled in, mostly overheard as adults spoke in hushed tones. I caught snippets—someone mentioned the pilot had prior infractions, and others speculated he shouldn’t have been flying. I learned that one passenger had taken an earlier flight to surprise his son at a Little League game, which made it all feel so surreal.
As a nine-year-old with a grandpa in a plane crash, 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? Why don’t all airplanes fall from the sky? And now, at 37, those questions have multiplied.
Most of what I understand about that fateful day comes from my childhood perspective, supplemented by old newspaper articles that have faded with time. The plane had tilted upon landing, its wing grazing the ground, flipping over and colliding with a concessions truck near the terminal. On March 4, 1987, nine out of the 16 people aboard Northwest Airlink Flight 2268 from Cleveland to Detroit perished. My grandpa, a lifelong smoker seated in the rear smoking section, survived.
I dared to ask questions back then, but when they went unanswered, I learned to keep quiet. Some things were just too painful for my mom to share, especially regarding her father. Other details were simply not meant for children, so the information I received was incomplete and filtered, leaving out the harsh realities that a mother, trying to shield her children, may find too difficult to disclose.
As I navigate the complexities of adulthood, I now understand and respect that some truths should remain hidden from young minds. How does a mother explain death, God, and the inexplicable nature of life’s tragedies when she herself lacks the answers?
Over the years, my questions evolved. Did the passengers chat about their lives, families, or the weather? Did they recall the safety instructions? Or were they distracted, engrossed in magazines and cocktails, blissfully unaware of the impending disaster? What did it feel like as the plane flipped and erupted in flames? Did their lives flash before their eyes? Did they pray for salvation in those final moments? And if they did, why didn’t God answer them?
Eventually, the urgency of my questions faded as life took over—teenage concerns about sleepovers, makeup, and boys eclipsed the tragedy. The crash slipped into the background, along with my inquiries.
But now, those questions have resurfaced. Perhaps it’s a natural part of growing older, or maybe it’s because my husband occasionally travels for work, which fills me with worry. It could also be that my oldest son is approaching the age I was when the crash occurred, placing me in that tender space between being a daughter and a mother.
Whatever the reason, my curiosity has awakened. What thoughts raced through my grandpa’s mind during those harrowing moments? How did my grandma react upon receiving the dreadful news? How did this tragedy affect my parents’ marriage? Were the survivors able to move on or were they forever tormented by the memory of that day?
Some of these mysteries have been answered. My grandpa escaped through an exit, suffering burns but living for another 25 years. He witnessed four of his grandchildren marry and met six great-grandchildren, celebrating his sixtieth wedding anniversary. While I can no longer pose my questions to him, I can now turn to my mom and grandma, knowing they might share the truths they once shielded me from.
Yet, as I journey through this transitional phase of life—watching my parents age, comforting friends who have lost loved ones, and answering my children’s questions about mortality and faith—I realize that many of my inquiries about the crash remain unanswered.
I often think of the father who took an earlier flight to see his son’s baseball game, the man who planned to play racquetball that evening, and the husband whose wife and two toddlers awaited him at home. Who were they? Did they say “I love you” before boarding, or were their last words hurried and mundane? Why did my grandpa survive when others did not?
And what of those left behind? The little boy preparing for a Little League game while his father’s plane crashed, the friend waiting at the athletic club for a partner who never arrived, the wife with two toddlers clinging to her as she cooked dinner for a husband who would never return. How did they cope? How did they wake day after day, knowing their lives had been irrevocably changed?
Recently, my mom and I sifted through old newspaper clippings, searching for answers about that tragic day and its many victims. However, the limited resources from before the digital age left us with more questions than answers.
What I’ve come to accept as I navigate this middle stage of life—feeling both scared and secure, uncertain yet confident, confused yet wise—is that it’s perfectly acceptable for some questions to remain unanswered. It’s alright to admit, “I don’t know,” and embrace a bit of mystery. It’s okay to take risks while also planning for the future. Ultimately, what truly matters is to love deeply and profoundly, as if each moment could be our last. Because, as we know, it very well could be.