“Ladies and gentlemen, we are experiencing some difficulties with takeoff. We’re going to be pulled back to the gate where you can deboard and we can fix the problem. We apologize for any inconvenience. As always, thank you for flying American Airlines.”

I was flying across the country to see my college roommate. We’d made plans to do this months ago, before graduation. So, when my flight from Phoenix to Charlotte, North Carolina was delayed to a malfunction in the hydraulics, I was annoyed. It’d been two months since I’d seen Claire, my best friend for four years who I saw every day for seven months at a time. We’d made the plans for this trip nearly six months before while sitting in a Starbucks as I ranted against going home and spending another summer ferrying my grandpa everywhere or running errands for my family. She’d offered a visit to the East Coast as a reprieve and I jumped on it.

I unbuckled my seat belt and reached over to pull the shade on the window down to keep the heat from getting in. Pulling my backpack into my lap and then over my shoulders, I reached into the overhead compartment and heaved out my carry-on, wincing as it clipped my hip as I joined the shuffling masses down the narrow aisles of the plane.

The cool air from the AC had waned, leaving an oppressive, dry heat as we trundled off the plane and through the gate, only to be blasted by the cool air of the airport. Shifting the weight of my backpack and alternating hands for my carry-on, I made my way out of the waiting area to the line forming in front of the customer service desk a few feet away. Wrapped around the edge of the seating area, I was about fifteenth in a line that was steadily growing. I pulled out my phone after setting my bag on the ground, turning it on to text my mom and update her on my flight status. I knew she’d been monitoring it for most the day, hopefully she would have some insight as to what I should do next. Sending off the message about the delay, I sent another to Claire informing her of the plane’s issues followed by a picture of my bag at my feet and an emoji of a sweating face.

As the line inched forward in minute increments, I shoved my bag forward with my foot, unwilling to bend down to pick up the extra weight. My stomach growled and I was reminded that I’d eaten only a cinnamon twist for breakfast several hours ago. My mother’s response to the delay was that she was looking into other potential flights but to hang in there in line. My aunt texted too, telling me that she would keep an eye on the flight status too. Rolling my eyes at their ‘advice’ I thought about pulling out the bag of pretzels I’d bought at Oakland but decided against it. The salt wouldn’t help my hunger much.

The woman in front of me was on her phone on and off for over fifteen minutes. Having nothing better to do, I eavesdropped on her conversation, gathering that she was a businesswoman and needed to be in North Carolina by five to get to a conference. Wincing as she huffed and turned around meeting my eyes as she did, I tried to affect an understanding mien. I too was delayed and had somewhere to be. We all did.

“They should be better prepared for things like this. It’s inconveniencing everyone here,” she said, brushing her hair over her shoulders. It was straight and brown and didn’t have any frizz. I hated it. My own hair was frizzy and fading black to brown and in a mess of curls, the purple extensions crimping at sticking out at the ends.

“Yeah they should,” I nodded and agreed.

“Now the boards are saying we’ll takeoff at 12,” she said, gesturing over to the electronic board about the check-in desk, the time flashing red. “It’s 11:45. Do they really think we believe that?”

“Doubtful, but I guess they think it’s placating?” I replied as I shrugged and fiddled with the hair-tie on my wrist, wondering if Claire would be okay with picking me up so late. We’d timed it for me to arrive at 7, but I doubted I’d get there before 9 now.

“You never know, there may be a miracle,” an older couple standing in front of the woman interjected, turning to face us. The husband was wearing a veteran’s hat (though I couldn't tell from what war) and a shirt tucked neatly into his jeans while the wife wore a nice black blouse and loose cotton pants. The wife had a smile on her face, her pink lips tilted upward as the old man shook his head at her optimism.

 “I know these days delays are common, but it is frustrating,” he commented as the line inched forward.

Nodding my head, I smiled at the old man. He was taller than me so I had to look up to meet his eyes, they were shaded under his veteran’s hat and I couldn’t make out the color. I shifted my bags the inch forward with my toes as they asked the woman in front of me where she was headed. I didn’t hear her response as I took off my glasses to rub at my eyes, the heat making them dry and itchy.

“Where are you headed?” the old man asked, his wife turning from the other woman to hear my answer.

“Well I’m landing in North Carolina, but my college roommate is picking me up and taking me to her house in South Carolina where I’ll spend the week with her, we just graduated.” He nodded at my response, smiling down at me as the other woman started in again about the airline’s failures.

“Well I hope this doesn’t put too much of a dent in your plans,” he replied. The woman in front of us chimed in about her college friends trying to get together each year, stating that it was cute I was aiming for a reunion so early on.

“Ladies and gentlemen, we apologize for your delay on Flight 9498 from Phoenix to Charlotte. We are still investigating the problem and estimate another 30 minutes until the plane can be boarded again. Thank you for your time and patience.” A collective groan worked its way up and down the line at the announcement and the businesswoman pulled out her phone again and began angrily swiping.

The heat of the airport, even with the AC on what I assumed (hoped) was full blast was stifling and the sweat made my curls cling to my neck. Pulling my hair up, I twisted it into a bun trying to maintain a somewhat decent appearance, especially considering the woman in front of me and her perfectly white pants and unfrizzy hair. Flight attendants filed out of a side door pushing aluminum carts towards the front of the check in desk where white pop-up tables were lined up next the gate and I wondered when they’d been set up and how I could have missed it. Tuning back into the conversation around me, I asked the elderly couple where they were headed.

Nodding his head at me, the old man smiled and said, “I’ve got to be back to Charlotte before tomorrow. I’ve got a chemo appointment that I can’t miss.”

A slight twinge started in my chest, a tightening of my heart. "I'm sure you'll make it on time,” I said.

The staff for American Airlines brought out snacks and drinks for everyone while they waited, a nice, if unhealthy, gesture considering most of it was soda and chips. I was craving real food, not snacks since I hadn’t eaten since five that morning when I’d gotten that cinnamon twist to go with my coffee. Shifting from foot to foot, I debated on the merits of going and grabbing something to snack on or getting out of line and going to get food at a restaurant as the old man walked off and to get his wife a bag of chips.

Walking back over he said, “Look at the steaming fresh pies they brought in for us,” before showing us the plastic packaged pie. Laughing with his wife as she shook her head, I felt something stir in the back of my mind.  He disappeared to the snack table again, and my stomach let out a gurgle, the velociraptor noises thankfully hushed by the constant flow of conversation.

Making a second trip over to the tables, the old man returned with several bags of chips. Holding out a bright yellow bag to me, he asked, “Want any potato chips?”

Dean Allan Fine died on April 30, 2017, seven years, one month, and a day after his wife, Norma Jean Fine, died. My grandparents.

I spent summers, late nights while my parents were out, and afternoons after school at their house, eating raspberries I plucked off my grandma’s raspberry bush and sneaking Classic Lays potato chips off my grandpa’s plate at lunch. When I was younger, he'd make us sandwiches and we would sit at the dining room table and watch the races, baseball game, whatever sport was on really and eat our turkey sandwiches, with dill pickles on the side and Lays Classic Potato chips. And he’d talk about his past, about his time in Korea during the war, about the times him and grandma went up to visit our family in Washington, about growing up in a literal log cabin.

As we got older, I was the one who made the sandwiches, but the chips, those were always the same. I would complain about the blandness, the sameness of constantly having potato chips and he would laugh at me and say I had no appreciation for the good things. I’d spread mayonnaise along the wheat bread and grab the Lays for each lunch. I remember placing a small amount on the paper plates, one for me, one for Grandma, one for Grandpa. I remember leaving the yellow bag open on the kitchen table before taking Grandma her plate. I remember grandpa taking extra handfuls from the bag as he chomped on a dill pickle and cracked open a can of beer, usually Pabst Blue Ribbon or Bud. I remember talking about the latest book I was reading (or rereading in the case of the Lord of the Rings trilogy), about school and my worries about my grades and making friends, about everything in my life and everything in his.

He died suddenly, over a three-day period in the hospital. The two warring cancers in his lungs were defeated by a mysterious infection in his stomach that combined with the fluid filling his lungs to slowly drain the life from him. There was no real warning, just a phone call. I was a state away at school.

My mom had warned me earlier in the day that he was in the hospital, had been since the afternoon before when she had him transferred from the VA to there, but she’d said the doctors were thinking about putting in a pacemaker, that he’d be okay. I couldn’t do much anyways, I was a state away in Oregon at college. So, I spent the day as I usually did, doing the Saturday circuit of Target, Starbucks, and Barnes and Noble with Claire. Drinking our coffees at the slightly sticky tables in Starbucks I told her about Grandpa, but it was more of an afterthought, an “Oh by the way my grandpa’s in the hospital again, mom says they’re thinking about putting in a pacemaker so he should be fine.”

But then my phone rang as I was preparing for the group movie night. I could hear people entering our apartment as I answered my phone, to the quiet and then sudden sobs of my mother. I shut my door and sank to the ground as my mom’s voice rang through the phone as she choked out, “They said it could be anytime bug, he’s…it went bad so fast…I’ll keep you posted.”

I don’t like crying. It’s exhausting and messy and rarely helps anything, but when I start, I have a hard time stopping. I start wheezing and gasping, not necessarily for air, because I am breathing—technically, but for something to stop the tears. I shake and my nose clogs with snot, and it’s all just really, gross…And it makes it obvious that I am upset.

I started to cry as the call went dead. Claire walked past my door as she came out of our bathroom, and she must have heard me, but she kept walking, knowing that I don’t like people seeing me in such a state. I’d broken down once in front of her in our four years of friendship and that had been one time too many. After several minutes of gasping, and a handful of tissues, I walked out into the kitchen where everyone had gathered, the smell of microwave popcorn freshly burnt wafting around the apartment. Heading straight for the cabinet next to the stove, I grabbed my Slytherin cup my best friend Cali had got me a couple years before and set it on the counter. Reaching for the top shelf, I grabbed the cheap bottle of vodka she’d gotten me for my 21st and started to make a drink. I wondered as I poured the shot out and mixed in the Sprite and grenadine, if I was channeling my Grandpa—when things go rough, make yourself a drink.

Claire walked into the kitchen and stopped behind me, her eyes widening as she watched me scrub at my eyes.

“What’s wrong?”

“My mom called, my grandpa…”

Reaching over she pulled me into a hug before I could finish, her long arms holding me loosely against her and I tried to hold back the tears.

“I’ll kick everyone out, we can just sit here and talk.”

“No,” I cut her off and headed to my chair in the living room, “No, let’s just watch the movie and eat cupcakes. I don’t want to think about it.” I turned to the TV, grateful that the movie we picked (Kingsman: The Secret Service) had nothing to do with the elderly. With a slow death. It was just guns and sex and ridiculous villains; I could let my mind disappear into the bright colors and British accents.

Eight hours later, I heard my phone buzz from its resting place on the storage bin under my bed. Reaching down, I grabbed for it, and pulled the screen to my face, squinting at the message: He’s gone. Love you Bug, talk in the morning.

Closing my hand around the proffered bag of chips, I thanked the man and turned into myself and the salty snack. Those damn potato chips. My eyes began to water as I popped chip after chip into my mouth, the salt both satisfying and annoying as I drank from my water bottle (I’d have to leave the line to go to the bathroom at least). All too soon the little bag was done, and not long after, so was our wait for the plane, the flight attendants hopping over to the intercom to let us know that the hydraulics had been fixed. Sometime between opening the bag and finishing it, the businesswoman had disappeared, taking her frustrations with her. The veteran’s hat, the cancer, the potato chips, it was too much to be a coincidence. It poked and prodded at me as I boarded the plane. I needed to do something.

I watched as the old man talked with his wife in front of me, his hands gesturing wildly as he laughed at her mock frown. Sighing at the slow dispersal of the line, I let a smile cross my lips and looked up at the couple, the muscles in my cheeks twitching as I said, “Goodbye.” I walked away as they said their goodbyes, heading to the bathroom before they called for boarding once more.

I boarded the plane not long after that, shuffling along the carpeted floors until I found a seat along the left-hand side, a window seat so I could rest my head against the wall. The shade was pulled down halfway over the window, the sun peeking through the open gap in a warm rush of light. Sitting down, I pushed my bag under the seat in front of me and waited for takeoff. The beaten down blue back of the seat in front of me and the faded beige of the overhead lights indicated that maybe this was an older plane, hence the issues. Rolling my eyes at that train of thought, I tried to focus into my flying mindset, thinking about all the things Claire and I would do when we were reunited.

But as I looked around me, I found I couldn’t rest, because that feeling that was pounding at the back of my skull, that need to do something, to recognize that whatever was happening, was happening, compounded as I watched the man and his wife sit down a few rows ahead of me on the opposite side of the plane. And I knew, this was my chance, to say goodbye.

And so, I pulled out my beat-up iPad (my laptop far too large to use on a plane) and I began to write.

Gillian Reimann is a passionate writer with a background in both fantasy and memoir writing. With a Bachelor's of Arts degree in Creative Writing from Pacific University and a Master's of Fine Arts degree from Saint Mary's College of California, she has experience with both the academic worlds of writing and the real world of fanfiction and other mediums.