The Pilot’s Cap on the Grave
Last Sunday, my eighteen-month-old son pointed at his father’s grave and shouted, “Dada! Dada!”
At first, I thought he meant the photograph on the headstone.
But then I saw what he was actually pointing at.
Something that had been missing since the plane crash that killed my husband.
And I had no idea how it had ended up there.
I’m Emma, twenty-nine, a former competitive rock climber who dreamed of opening a climbing school.
Now I’m raising my son Jack alone.
My husband, Dan, used to tease me. “Most people feel safer with both feet on the ground.”
“Most people haven’t seen me walk in heels.”
“Fair point. You’re safer hanging from a cliff.”
Then everything changed. Dan died in a plane crash when I was six months pregnant.
I haven’t climbed since.
These days, I’m afraid of everything, even leaving Jack with my mother for a few hours.
I take occasional sewing jobs, but Dan’s savings ran out months ago.
Last week, the washing machine broke.
“Four hundred dollars,” the repairman announced.
“Does that include a new machine?”
He didn’t laugh.
Mom helps with groceries and childcare, sometimes leaving money in my kitchen drawer.
“Mom, stop leaving money.”
“Maybe your drawer is producing it.”
I hate depending on her. But there’s one thing I never skip.
Every Sunday, I take Jack to his father’s grave.
And that Sunday, when I followed his pointing finger, I finally saw it.
A navy pilot’s cap sitting on the stone ledge.
I froze.
One side of its gold braid hung slightly lower than the other.
I’d repaired that braid myself. It was Dan’s cap.
The same cap nobody had found after the crash.
I picked it up with trembling hands, running my fingers over the crooked gold braid.
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I hadn’t held that cap since the morning Dan died.
And suddenly, I was remembering everything.
