I was flying to my son’s funeral when I heard the pilot’s voice – I realized I had met him 40 years ago
My name is Margaret, and I am 63 years old. Last month, I took a flight to Montana to bury my son. Robert had his hand resting on his knee, moving his fingers as if he were trying to smooth out something that wouldn’t lie flat. He had always been the fixer—the one with duct…
