When I was two years old my father, Tim Davis, was killed in the crash of USAir Flight 427 along with 131 other people on September 8, 1994. I have no memory of him.
During the summer of 2013 I visited the crash site for the first time and was accompanied by one of the first responders to the crash, John, who I had been put in contact with that same summer.
When we ascended a hill, the hill that I knew from newspaper clippings tucked away in one of my mother’s boxes, John pointed over to the hill’s slope. White pieces of something stuck out of the green foliage. We both stooped down and picked up a few pieces. I was fairly sure although I couldn’t believe it, but John reassured me that we were actually holding pieces from the exterior of the plane. I turned each piece over in my hands, noticing how brittle they felt and how they looked like honeycomb.
John told me how these things would be here longer than the both of us, that they would never go way.