This morning there was a two-inch sheet of ice covering most of Manhattan.  I slip and slide on the un-shoveled sidewalks, comfortable in the knowledge that my father, who is over 90 years-old, is too level-headed to go outside.  He may be crazy when it comes to other things, and a little “vague” when it comes to yet other things, but about these things, he is a solid guy.

On a regular day, he would have gone to his sculpture studio, all the way down in Chinatown.  I call in the afternoon and, as I expected, he was home. 

“I am soooo glad that you didn’t go to the studio, Dad.” 

 “Oh, no, no,” he replied, “not today.” 

I think, see, he is a level-headed guy.  But he continues: 

“I had a check-up at 8:45am near NYU, so I wasn’t planning on going to the studio anyway.” 

My voice raised in alarm:  “Dad, that was when the ice was the worst!!!” 

Dad was reassuring in tone and demeanor, “Sweetheart, the sidewalks were shoveled in front of the doorman buildings.  And I only slid about an inch on one of those thick ice patches at a corner.”

THUD.  My head crashes to my desk.  I lift my head.  THUD.  My head crashes again.  This feels so much better than what I am hearing on the other end of the phone call.

“Do you need me to pick up anything for you for dinner?”

“Oh, no, after I came back from my check-up, I rested, and then I went down to the bagel store and over to the supermarket and bought what I need.”

Ok, my 90+ year-old dad carried groceries over icy streets.  He is fine.

He sounded exhilarated, in fact.  Maybe because he is 90 years-old and can still take care of himself (on a day-to-day basis, at least).

Me?  I have grayer hair.  Maybe I am scared because one day he won’t be able to.