We decided to go for a walk. I hear the snick of the screen door latching. I was working outside, out of sight, behind the arbor vitae lining the drive. I saw Elise at the top of the porch stairs. She wore a knitted ski cap with a bauble, and a coat a season or two lighter — I learn later than she cannot zip the winter coat she wanted to wear. I thought she may have come out to see me but after waiting the beats, and our dog not alerting, I looked out. She was marching down the drive, headed purposely for the street.

“I am going for a walk. You didn’t invite me, so I am going alone.”

“Should I join you?”

“If you want.”

We had argued earlier in the day. I had left the room to work outside. The fire in the stove was dwindling but still held warmth. I thought she might stay.

We walked — all three, the dog and me, and Elise. She was powering down the road —- “You don’t want to join me?” Well, the dog needs to sniff, and sniff, then pee and sniff again. That’s walking with a dog. “Can’t you just pull her. It is not the time. We should walk together.”

Walking is always a hazard. The walk out is usually fine – there are complaints about the wind, complaints about the road surface as without sidewalks we walk to the edge or on the verge. However, it is always a challenge to gauge the turn about. Walking out always seems so easy. The initial return with the help of the wind makes each stride count for more, but three quarters home, when a car passes by a little too close we stop. The distance becomes measurable. It is no longer just her cane to provide stability, but an arm. And through the arm, I feel an instability. An ankle broken twelve years earlier so that it sags, rolling inward. Arches that have slumped, so putting down each foot is a negotiation of the surface as a flat pan rather than a distinct heel, then ball to roll to and push off. Then of course there are the bunions and the hammer toe that send pain as the foot rolls forward.

I suggest an arm about the waist, feeling more like a soldier with a comrade in a World War One movie, helping the wounded back to miserable shelter from the wind in a rain, drowned trench. I am rejected. Accused of pushing too much forward. Unbalancing, rather than supporting. Just an arm is all I need — put like this – an anchor to spin and wobble about.

We do make it home. A collapse or two along the way that make for a special intimacy from years ago when we held each other, not for need but purely for pleasure. Elise is back in her chair – her coat on its hook and her walking stick in the holder by the door. Her gloves are next to her and her place is found by its bookmark in her book. That was the walk.