I left on a Friday morning. It was obscene the amount of luggage I’d been allowed to carry on (bless you, Eppley!). I was wearing my dad’s camouflage hunting coat (warm AND waterproof—I was going to Seattle, after all). I had a hiking backpack the size of a human torso. I had clipped on a sleeping bag to that. And I had another, smaller shoulder bag that held my purse and my laptop. I had wanted to put the sleeping bag in it, but it didn’t quite fit. But I made it through security. One man at the Frontier desk asked me if I was going to check my bag. I looked at him and said, less confidently than I should have, “No, I’m going to carry it on.” And I’d made it.

I went to my gate and sat as discreetly as possible in an empty row of chairs facing the window.

A lady was standing at the window, watching the plane come to the gate.

She turned and looked at me and said, “You got to carry all this on, and I had to check my other bag that’s the same size as this?!” She pointed at a fairly small roller suitcase, about 18x18x9. She also had a small handbag. Technically, that was three bags. I only had two.

I was so annoyed. Yes, I carried on more than should have been allowed. But please don’t make a big stink. I really don’t want to spend an extra 20 bucks. Please just leave me alone.

I laughed lightly and said, “I know. I’m hoping there won’t be a problem.”

She said, “I know. No one wants to pay the extra fee. I don’t know why they made me check mine. Probably needed some extra money.”

I laughed uncomfortably.

“So are you actually going hiking, or is that just how you pack?” she asked, friendlier than before.

“Yeah, I am hoping to hike. I’ve packed a whole tent in here.”

“Oh, I know. My boys have those tiny little things. Sleeping bags the size of your fist.”

She sat down next to me, and we chatted like this a bit more, and I lightened up a bit. If some flight attendant came and made me check a bag, it wouldn’t be the end of the world.

I pulled out my boarding pass to check my seat number. She glanced over. “Oh! I’m sorry. I don’t mean to snoop,” she said. “I just noticed you’re in 15, and so am I. Isn’t that wild? I’ve never talked to anyone in the terminal, and here I am, talking to a person in my row. But I’m A, and you’re C, so I guess that doesn’t mean we’ll be sitting together.”

When the luggage cart came out to the plane, she stood up and again went to the window. “Where is it? I only see five bags, and none of them are mine. They’d better get it on there after making me check it.”

I made an agreeable sound.

She came back and sat down. “My husband passed away December 13.”

“Oh, I’m so sorry,” I said, still expecting her to say “two years ago” and talk about the anniversary of his death.

“He was cremated, and I had the ashes divided up for my three sons. One of those little containers is in that bag, so I can give it to my son in Denver. That’s why I’m so paranoid about my bag.”

Rightly so. Wish I could give her some of my bag space now.

Soon, we boarded the plane. She got ahead of me somehow. Once aboard, I noticed the seats to the right of the aisle were A and C. We’d be sitting together after all. I smiled.

When I got to my seat, we greeted each other again. I set down my smaller bag and felt several eyes on me as I shoved my backpack into the overhead compartment. I had to try it twice, but it finally went in. Relieved, I plopped into my seat.

“I hope there’s not a problem with that bag. Everyone hates me,” I whispered to my new friend.

“No, you did great,” she said.

We talked a lot on the way to Denver. I asked her questions about her husband and her sons. She asked me about my trip and advised me, “No rest stops. Only gas stations, ok?” When I told her I like to write, she asked me my name, in case I ever got famous. Hers is Kathy.

I thought about all the emotions this woman must be going through. A three-week widow.

I thought about other hard things that my own loved ones are going through.
Visa denial and having to leave the country.
Your partner having to leave the country.
Prostate cancer.
Separation.
Drug and alcohol rehab treatment.
Miscarriage.
Pregnancy.
Inability to get pregnant.

And suddenly I felt very selfish. All sorts of things like this have been going on for four years, but I’ve focused so much on telling other people my own needs that I haven’t fully noticed what’s been going on in other people’s lives.

We parted ways warmly in Denver. I’m very thankful for that brief encounter.