Nine moments of preparing to fly.
Mid-April through early May 2029. Jan books the flight. Mom books her in. The wobble of preparing — the looking-at-old-passport, the buying-of-gifts, the packing, the goodbye to August at JFK at 9 PM on a Tuesday. The pack ends with Jan at the security line, the small bag of gifts at her feet.
Mom called Monday afternoon to set the dates.
Tuesday May 8th to Tuesday May 22nd. Fifteen days. Mom said don't make it shorter. I said I won't. Mom said bring the cookies from the bakery on Manhattan Ave. I said which ones. Mom said the same ones from last time. They keep three days in a tin. Bring two tins. In seven minutes Mom had done most of the planning. I only had to book the flight.
Opened the passport Tuesday morning to check the expiration date.
November 2028. Hadn't, in fourteen years of holding a passport, managed to renew one before a trip-requirement. Scheduled the rush-renewal at the post office on Tuesday afternoon. Sixty dollars extra to expedite. The passport arrived the following Tuesday — three weeks before the flight. The stamps from the old one don't transfer. The trips are, technically, gone from the document. The trips are, in the body, still there.
The fourth notebook opened on the morning the passport went in for processing.
Had been waiting for the right day. The Wednesday after. Wrote the first line: May 8—going to Hangzhou. In the prior three notebooks the opening had been an observation about the morning. This time it was a destination. The fourth was, by Wednesday at 7:14 AM, the trip's notebook.
Bought two tins on the Saturday before the flight.
The grandchild — who I'd known by name for two years, who was running the morning shift — said for your mom? I said for the trip. She nodded. Added a third tin on the house. "For the long flight," she said. Tried, three times, to refuse. She ignored all three, the way they do. The third came home with me. By Sunday morning, mostly empty.
Bought Mom a set of three felt-tip pens — the Japanese brand she uses for her handwritten labels on the pickled-vegetable jars.
She'd been running low for six months. The right kind. Wrapped it in the brown paper Mom likes. The gift was, by Sunday evening, in the suitcase.
Drew him a picture across three evenings.
The bird cage on the balcony. I had never, in any prior part of my life, drawn a bird cage. The drawing was not very good. The drawing was, by my own deliberate decision, the right gift anyway. He'd never received a drawing from me. In May 2029 he did. Wrapped it in brown paper. Monday at 9:42 PM, ready.
Mim got in the suitcase.
Mim has gotten in every suitcase I've packed since 2026. Didn't, on this Tuesday afternoon, move her. Packed around her. By 4:14 PM the suitcase held most of the trip. Mim held most of the suitcase. Lifted her at 4:42 to close it. She accepted the relocation with the Mim-disappointment that meant I will hold this against you for the next twelve hours. By Wednesday morning she had, in Mim's way, forgiven me. The suitcase was, by 5 PM, zipped.
Priya took the spare key at 5:14 PM Tuesday.
By 2029 she'd watched Mim — by coming over to the apartment, not by taking her home — seven times. The arrangement: Priya came over twice a day for the feeding and the petting and the checking the mail. Mim accepted Priya without comment. Priya said go. Priya said send me the picture of Mom at the airport. I said I will. She hugged me. I closed the door. Priya stayed in the apartment for an hour after, by her own later report, just to make sure Mim was settled. Fifteen years and she still did that.
August walked me to JFK.
The security line was moderate-but-moving by 9:14 PM. He stood at the barrier. We hugged. He said eat well. Take care. Call me. He said say hi to your grandfather. He said fifteen days. I said fifteen days. He walked back through the terminal. I walked through security. The trip was, by 9:42 PM, about to begin.