Role Reversal

“Why are you wearing long sleeves on such a hot day? my daughter asked me a few weeks ago when we met by chance on the street. “To protect the public,” I answered, rolling up a sleeve to show her the unsightly discolorations on my arm, the extensive bruises resulting from a daily dose of blood thinner. “Never mind the public,” she said. “Be comfortable.” This was sensible advice, since the only person offended by my unsightly arms is me. If anyone else notices them, they don’t much care.

But my daughter is not content with implying that vanity has no place in the life of a man so old. She has other pieces of advice too. She tells me not to walk so fast, that a broken hip is no joke at my age. If I had listened to her, I might not have fallen a few weeks ago. But now that I’ve returned to walking in Prospect Park, I hear her all the time when I’m there: “slow down, Dad, slow down,” and I do. She also encourages me to indulge myself in sweets occasionally. The other day, when I told her I avoid fatty foods because I don’t want to gain weight, she said “you’ve already lived a long time. Loosen up!” Perhaps she’s right.

Like Aeneas, who fled flaming Troy, carrying his father on his back, we all carry our fathers around and our mothers too, come to think of it, even when they’ve been dead for decades. My father whispers “stop fooling around and get to work.” My mother tells me to watch what I say. Even though I often ignore them, I’m used to hearing their directives. But I’m not used to this third person on my back, my daughter. I’m pleased that she cares enough about me to worry, but how many back-seat drivers can a man tolerate? I guess I’ll find out.