About My Dad

When my dad was 88, he did not take walks anymore. His cane stood idle by the front door. He mostly sat. My mother helped him into his chair and out of it, my mother, all 4'9" of her.

He'd call to her. "Lola." She'd come to pull and steady him, help him to the bathroom, help him to the kitchen, to the bedroom, help him into his clothes and out of them.

When I visited the last time before she died, I tried to get Daddy outside to walk. He said he couldn't. I said he needed the exercise.

He said the sidewalk was uneven; he couldn't see; he'd already fallen once on the front steps. It was all true.

I still see him buckling his belt that day, nearly weeping, shaking his head that he couldn't do it. I said sure he could. He was right, you know. He just couldn't do it. But I thought I could fix it, make him get outside and walk.

What did I know? I was trying to save my mother.

That is one moment I would like to have back. I would do it better.