Peter will turn 90 next week. When we met 55 years ago, I didn’t give a thought to what he might be like at 90. (For that matter, he didn’t know what I’d be like 55 years later either.)
He’s still handsome and smart and has a wicked wit. His Parkinson’s Disease has taken away his ability to move around easily, but he still gets himself to class and elsewhere with the help of his bright red walker. Last week he took the subway on his own for the first time. It wasn’t all that easy, but he managed.
Once in a while, he is less than perfect. I can’t recall what my display of displeasure was about the other day, but I wasn’t surprised by his response.
“What do you expect from a 90-year old?” he replied.
After 55 years, I could see that one coming.