At eighty-eight, flying is no longer an adventure—it’s a test of endurance. My knees ache, my hands grip my cane, and the long shuffle through airports feels more like a challenge than travel. These days, I’d rather sit on my porch with a book and let the cicadas sing me into the evening. But this journey was necessary. My oldest friend, Edward, had passed away, and I wasn’t going to miss his memorial. Some promises remain sacred, even when the body resists.
I booked a first-class ticket—not to boast, but because comfort at my age is essential. Boarding slowly, step by deliberate step, I felt a small sense of peace when I finally settled into seat 1A. The wide leather chair offered space to stretch, and as I smoothed the creases of my worn jacket, I allowed myself a deep exhale.
That calm didn’t last long. A man in a sharp suit moved down the aisle with impatience, speaking loudly on his phone. When he noticed me, he sneered. “First class, really? What’s next—letting anyone sit here?”
I stayed silent. My ears burned, but I chose patience over argument. A young flight attendant, Clara, stepped forward, her voice calm and firm. “Sir, please treat our passengers with respect.”
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