Fifteen Years After My Father Changed the Locks, He Seated Me at Table Twenty-Two

April, twelve years back.

My handwriting ran wide and young in those days.

I read it standing up.

“Dear Clare, they put me in the left seat of a C-130 out of Pope Field, and I flew four hours and ten minutes on Thursday.

My copilot’s name was Dunleavy, and he asked me twice if I was sure about the crosswind.”

Marcus looked up from his papers.

“Twelve years ago.”