At 90, my mother made a leap into a Venetian flatboat as if she were one of the Flying Wallendas. She leapt off the wobbly street without a hitch in her triple-A Keds. They were ripply after so many washings. White as teeth. My mother had worried for weeks about that leap. She didn’t think she could make it. She had to. It was our only way to the airport. Aeroporto Marco Polo. We knew she could do it. You got this we said. Piece of cake. Afterwards. After she nailed it. On the cruise to the airport. My mother’s face lit up like the moon. You know she said. Most of my friends can’t even walk. Her eyes matched the Adriatic. Sheen for sheen.