I arrived yesterday afternoon to visit my dad a little after 4 p.m.

When the elevator door opened to the small 3rd floor lobby area, there he was, standing with his walker, and ready to step into the elevator. My sister, Bonnie, at his side.

He looked at me. Surprised, but then a lot of life is a daily surprise for him right now.

“Ian,” he exclaimed. “Good to see you.”

Pause. Processing.

“I’m here with my daughter,” he says correctly, glancing at Bonnie.

She smiles. “And you’re here with your son, too,” she adds, quietly trying to get him oriented, just in case.

He announces: “We’re going for a walk.”

He thinks.

“We don’t often get together like this.”

He’s right.

He’s two-thirds of the way through his 96th year, with a birthday that rolls around in early December.

The elevator doors closed again and down we went. Off at the first floor, out the back door at the end of the parking lot, very slowly, of course. He’s using the walker they advised us against. It has four wheels, brakes, a freeway flyer of walkers. On the down side, its four wheels mean that it could turn out to be an unstable or illusory source of support. But the plus side the wheels means he can power over uneven ground and cracks in the sidewalk, something he couldn’t do with one of those crippled contraptions with tennis balls stuck on the back legs. So we accept the risk and let him walk, when he can.

We didn’t go far. At the corner–not far at all, maybe 30 or 40 feet–Bonnie reminded him that once we stop, he’ll have to walk back as well. We turn the corner, keep going a little ways. Up to the next driveway. He stops. “Time to turn around.”

He’s relying on the walker, but he’s in control, keeping its wheels pointed at the path, legs moving at something between a stride and a shuffle. But who’s judging?

We recently asked my mother: “What’s the secret to living a long time?”

She responded with a direct answer. “Keep breathing.”

Similarly, keep moving. Another secret.

I say: “Do you enjoy getting out for a walk.”

He replies: “You do? You like a bit of fresh air?”

I’m surprised by the twist in perspective, but reply.

“Yes, I guess I do.”

We then sat for a few minutes at a picnic table downstairs. It takes some work. He has to get into position, backing towards the seat, walker in tow. Set the brakes. Leaning hard on the arms, he slowly falls into place on the bench. Bonnie and I relax.

Rubbing his legs with both hands, he looks up. “Use them or lose ’em,” he says. “I don’t walk enough.”

He admits getting tired on our short journey around the corner. I think of the day he lay upstairs in bed and told me he was thinking of walking down to San Diego. I winder if, in his mind, he may have already made that trip.

We agree. We should do this more often.

I grab my camera, raise it to my eye. He smiles. Image captured.

It’s a good day. He knows who I am.