by Leanne Grabel
At 90. She leapt into a Venetian flatboat. As if one of the Flying Wallendas. Leapt right off the street. Street made of water. Wobbling. But. She had to make the leap. We had to catch the boat. To the airport. Venice. We had to catch the boat. She had to make the leap. Then. She aced it. Not a hitch. In her Triple-A Keds. They were ripply after so many washings. White as lies. How she’d worried for weeks. Hey. You got this. We said. Piece of cake. Then. She nailed it. Boom. Cruising to the airport. Her face shone. You know. She said. My friends. They can’t even walk. She was staring at the moon. We were staring at the moon. And her face. And the sea. Brilliant against the sky. Yes. Her sheen! Outshone the moon’s. And the Adriatic’s. Sheen for sheen. My mother’s face.