“I want to go by the bushes and trees,” Dad insisted at the end of a wheelchair walk around the block.  “Put on your list, for whenever you get around to it , to trim the junipers back from the sidewalk.”  I was reluctant to do so, I said, worried I would cut off all the green and leave only the bare ugly inside sticks.  “Do it anyway,” he said imperiously, admitting no discussion.  And I bit out a stiff, “Yes, Sir.”  Mom invited her doctor (and neighbor) over to see her needlepoints that adorn every wall.  He politely wandered the house, exclaiming, “Oh my gosh!” at each frame, and she beamed.  Quinn quizzed Dad from a paralegal coursebook.  As 9:30 p.m. came, and Quinn asked Dad if he wanted to discuss another legal scenario, I bristled at the late hour and Dad’s flagging energy, but Dad answered “Absolutely!” and they kept at it, Dad’s legal mind as sharp as ever.  I fled the house for a Saturday hike, a long hike, the longer away the better, and before the midpoint my phone dew-dropped with Mom’s text: Will you be home soon?  I need you to take me on an errand. I responded, No, I will not be home soon.  No, I will not be home, ever, I wanted to type.  As I nursed my bottle of Gatorade after the hard hike, Dad randomly asked if I knew a particular song, and began croaking out “Sunny Side of the Street.”  One of my favorite Frank Sinatra covers.  Mom soon added her higher-pitched screech, and the melody flattened into a gravelly two-tone monotone.  After the song, Dad struggled and shook to stand tall enough to push his walker toward the bathroom, dribbling along the way, muttering desperately, “Oh, God.  Help me, Abba!” and cursing his routine “Damn!” as he worked to coordinate the walker, the door, the handrails, his pivot to sit down, and pushing down his sweat pants.  “Rog, give my pants a tug,” he called on his journey back to his recliner.  “I couldn’t pull them up by myself.”  Yes, Sir.  Oh, God.  Help me, Abba.