The reunion is not for another month yet.  But Dad wants everything to be perfect for his former missionaries when they come.  He has made a mental list of all the little jobs he wants done, though he does not say he wants me to do them.  He and Mom have not been able to hold an April reunion for two years due to Covid-19.  But on March 31, up to one hundred of them, all dear friends, will descend upon the house and descend the basement stairs to tell stories and sing hymns and eat Brazilian food and bask in love and memory.  As their mission president, he was a young 36 (Mom 32), and they about 20.  Now he is 87 and they about 70.  As Dad rattled off his list, he tossed sections of the New York Times from his chair to the couch—better than dropping them on the floor to be tripped and slipped on, although sometimes he misses—and I grabbed pen and paper to write the tasks.  (I can remember a list of only two things; give me three and I am sunk.)  The first task was to clean the chandelier and replace all the bulbs, and I volunteered.  I could see no dust or grime, and all the teardrop lights worked fine, so I thought it a wasteful task.  But to honor him I dragged in the ten-foot step ladder, climbed to inspect, brought up a pack of baby wipes to wash off the dust, and swapped out all seventeen bulbs.  While I could see nothing wrong with the chandelier before, now it seemed to shine with twice its prior brilliance.  Most important, Dad was happy, which made Mom happy.  While I question the wisdom of a reunion, not wanting to see Dad push himself into an exhaustion difficult to recover from, the camaraderie will make him immensely happy.  And who knows if this will be the last reunion he hosts.  Dad’s days are growing shorter and shorter, by which I mean he rests longer and longer at night and during daytime naps.  He no longer reads until three in the morning.  Even midnight has been trimmed to 10:30, when Mom helps him upstairs after the ten o’clock news.  He keeps a volume of the encyclopedia upstairs and another downstairs, to sneak in minutes of study between CNAs and naps and Mom’s NCIS and meals and voyages to the restroom.  Upstairs is volume “A”.  I heard him telling Cecilia all about Air and Africa.  Downstairs is volume “R” and he reads until his bladder forces him to move.  I have wondered what should be my reaction to his grunts and groans as he moves around.  Are they signs of acute distress to which I should run in response?  Or are they a learned habit reflecting a pervasive state of chronic daily distress?  I know I cannot live my life poised tautly on the brink of anxiety, responding in a rush to all his distress, which would become my own acute and chronic mental distress.  I would break down teetering always on the edge of emergency.  My present reaction is to continue my activities while listening with one ear for signs of extreme distress, like Dad yelling, “Rog!  I need your help!”  That is when I run.  Far from acute, but still distressing, is when Dad or Mom ask me about things I have just finished telling them about.  I brought home from Zacateca’s Market three Big Burritos, filled with chopped steak, and announced the steak-filled burritos for dinner.  Taking a bite, he asked, “Is this steak?  My burrito has steak in it.”  Yes, I respond, I just told you it was a steak burrito.  “Oh,” he said, both of us feeling bad, for different reasons.  I am learning too slowly to be patient with fading memories and ears hard of hearing.