She flags the flight attendant for a bubbly refill, then sighs and shakes her head.
It used to be so nice, she says.
You seem to be enjoying yourself, I point out.
Gogo shrugs and crams a fistful of nuts into her mouth.
Three days in Milan, three days in Florence.
We would eat and shop and soak up all things Italian together.
My mother, however, was a terrible traveler.
She inspected cutlery, glasses, toilets and tubs for dirt and stains.
She didnt like strong flavors or seasonings.
She didnt like to be kept waiting.
Traveling with Gogo was exhausting.
My brother had died more than 30 years earlier; my father, 15 years later.
The flight attendant places our pasta course on our linen-draped tray tables.
I hold my breath as Gogo lifts a forkful to her red-lipsticked lips.
The only red sauce she likes is her own.
Her face scrunches up in disgust.
Too salty, she announces, and pushes the dish away.
Gogo always matches her shoes and her purse always.
Perched on top of her head is a perfectly coiffed auburn wig.
Remember how wonderful first class used to be?
she asks me dreamily, though I know she doesnt expect an answer.
Remember how they used to carve the chateaubriand right there at your seat?
Another image crowds out that one: my mother needing a wheelchair to get to the plane this time.
When she asked me to request one, I balked.
you’ve got the option to walk to the gate, I told her.
Itll just be faster, she said, patting my hand.
Now, I study her face.
She doesnt look 80, I decide; she looks 70, 75 tops.
Now its my turn to pat her hand.
Love you, Gogo, I whisper.
A smile stretches across her face.
Dont get all sentimental, she rasps.
Im not dead yet.
