While I was there, something struck me about the service and and all the proceedings. They were simple. Brief. My granfather was neither of those things. He was exciting and always had a story to tell. He was a radio operator on a B17 during WW2 and a lot of his stories come out of that experience. So when the simple service passed and I listened to my mom retell her father’s adventures and the trials of growing up with two deaf parents, it was already time to fly home again even though there were many stories I didn’t get to hear, ones he never even told my mother, ones he never told a soul.
As I was flying home looking down on the earth through the holes in the clouds, I suddenly felt like I was seeing the world from his perspective. A small ball of earth beneath my feet. A ball on which there are thousands of people waiting to hear his stories.