My dad slept well last night. That’s a good thing. He was already downstairs when I woke up.
We walked this morning. Perfect day. Sun filtered by high, thin cirrus, with a few contrails thrown in for good measure. Temps in the mid-70s.
We didn’t go far–down my block then across the next street to sit on a bench near a neighborhood basketball court. Then we walked home.
Later this afternoon we walked again, a little farther. “I feel better this time,” he said. Not so fast, Harold.
Yes, he’s 89, but my dad’s level of physical activity has been near zero. Change should come quickly. Soreness too.
Meanwhile, I’m on my way to Burbank tomorrow and he’ll be riding shotgun. Two days in California and he’s already unlocking the HOV lane for me.