The phone in our motel room jolted us awake around 9 a.m., a sound that was rare in 1987. Back then, those phones only rang for wake-up calls or noise complaints—neither of which was the case today.
My mom answered the call while sitting sideways on the bed, her voice low and steady for what felt like an eternity. Meanwhile, my brother, sister, and I bounced on the beds, flipping through channels, urging her to finish so we could head out to the amusement park. But when she finally hung up, something was amiss. Instead of the usual hurried apology, she broke down in tears, rushing to my dad and sobbing into his chest.
I had never witnessed my mother cry before. Words like “plane crash,” “fire,” and “Detroit” spilled from her lips, but their meaning eluded me at first. Gradually, the pieces began to fit together: my grandpa had been involved in a plane crash in Detroit. A plane crash.
In the days that followed, bits of information trickled in, mostly overheard during hushed conversations among the adults. “The pilot had previous citations,” I heard one person say. “He shouldn’t have been flying,” someone else chimed in. Another passenger had taken an earlier flight to surprise his son at a Little League game.
At nine years old, I had a barrage of questions swirling in my mind. Did the passengers know their exits? What happened to those who couldn’t escape? Was it really safe to fly? Why don’t all planes fall from the sky? Fast forward to my 37-year-old self, and I find those questions only multiply.
Most of what I know about that fateful day comes from the perspective of my nine-year-old mind, along with snippets from old newspaper articles that have faded with time. The plane had tilted as it landed, its wing grazing the ground, leading to a flip and a collision with a concessions truck right outside the terminal. On March 4, 1987, nine out of the 16 individuals aboard Northwest Airlink Flight 2268 from Cleveland to Detroit lost their lives. Fortunately, my grandpa, a lifelong smoker seated in the rear smoking section, survived.
As a child, I asked a few questions, but when they went unanswered, I learned to keep quiet. Some topics were too painful for my mom to address; after all, this was her father we were discussing. Other details were perhaps not meant for young ears, filtered through a mother’s desire to shield her children. The information I received was like a puzzle with missing pieces, leaving out the realities a mother grapples with while trying to protect her family, even as she herself needs a shield from harsh truths.
Now, as a woman in my own middle years, I empathize with that struggle. There are some truths that children simply aren’t ready to face. How does a mom discuss death, God, and the unfairness of life when she grapples with those same questions?
Over the years, my inquiries evolved. Did the passengers converse, sharing stories about work or family? Were they aware of the safety protocols? Did they focus on their magazines and cocktails, unaware of the imminent danger? What was it like to experience a plane flipping and bursting into flames? Did they pray for salvation in those heart-stopping moments? And if they did, whose God were they calling out to, and why weren’t their prayers answered?
Eventually, my curiosity waned, fading into the background as I navigated the drama of teenage life—sleepovers, crushes, and all the chaos that comes with growing up. The crash slipped from my thoughts, taking my inquiries with it.
But lately, those questions have resurfaced. Perhaps it’s a natural part of life that prompts us to ponder death more as we age. Maybe it’s because my husband travels for work, igniting my worries. Or perhaps it’s the fact that my eldest son is nearing nine, the same age I was during the crash, placing me in a reflective space as both daughter and mother.
For whatever reason, old questions have come rushing back, along with a host of new ones. What thoughts crossed my grandpa’s mind during those terrifying moments? How did my grandma react to the shocking news? How did this tragedy shape my parents’ marriage? Were the survivors able to move on, or were they forever haunted by the experience?
Some of these questions have answers. My grandpa made it out through one of the exits, despite suffering severe burns. He lived for another 25 years, celebrating milestones like his grandchildren’s weddings and the birth of his great-grandchildren. He even marked his sixtieth wedding anniversary. Though I can’t ask him my questions now, I know I can seek answers from my mom and grandma—who would likely share the truths they shielded me from as a child.
However, as I continue to navigate this middle age—watching my parents grow older, supporting friends through loss, and addressing my children’s inquiries about life and death—I’ve realized that many of my questions about that plane crash remain unanswered.
I think of the father who took an earlier flight to attend his son’s baseball game, the man eager to play racquetball that night, the husband with a family waiting at home. Who were these people? What were they like? Did they express love before boarding, or were their last words caught up in the mundane routines of life? Why were their lives cut short while my grandpa survived?
And what about those left behind? The little boy preparing for his game while his father’s plane met its tragic fate. The friend waiting for a partner who never arrived. The wife juggling two toddlers, unaware that her husband would never return. How did they cope? How did they rebuild their lives day after day, knowing everything had changed irrevocably?
Recently, my mom and I sifted through old newspaper articles, seeking clarity about the events and those affected. However, since the crash occurred before the digital age, we ended up with more questions than answers. Questions that may never be resolved.
What I’m discovering as I traverse this complex middle—feeling both fear and safety, uncertainty and assurance, confusion and wisdom—is that it’s perfectly acceptable for some questions to remain unanswered. It’s fine to admit “I don’t know” and embrace a little mystery. It’s alright to take risks sometimes, just as it’s wise to prepare for the future and prioritize safety. Ultimately, it’s alright to feel lost amidst the quest for answers.
What truly matters is that we love fiercely and deeply, as if our time is limited. Because, in reality, it is. That much is certain.
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Summary:
This reflective piece delves into the emotional aftermath of a tragic plane crash that impacted a family in 1987. The author navigates her childhood memories and grapples with lingering questions from her past, exploring the complexities of love, loss, and the quest for understanding in the face of unanswered questions.