The end of the road

Sunday call. Mum put Dad on and he told me he walked to the end of the road and back. Twice this week. He was so pleased with himself. Sixty six years old, a man who has never in my hearing expressed satisfaction about anything he has done, delighted about the end of the road. He described the route. There is nothing to describe, it is a road, he has lived on it for thirty one years. He described it anyway — down past the Wilcoxes', turn at the hydrant, back up the other side — and I listened to all of it. Then he said, so that is where we are at, and handed the phone back. I cried after I hung up. Good crying, I think. It is getting harder to tell the difference lately, which I suspect is actually a reasonable sign. Mum came back on and we talked about the follow-up in December, and whether he is going to do anything about the way he eats, which he is not, and both of us said so out loud this time instead of going quiet about it, which is new.