How much longer? Are we there yet?

Is it almost over?

The smooth, supple limbs that danced lightly, hopefully, free, now barely bend at the joints. They are vein-gnarled and liver stained.

"I can't do a sandwich. I used to be able to."

"What the heck is a sandwich?"

"You know, it's when you bend from the waist and kiss your knees."

"I don't think that's called a sandwich."

"It is."

The old friends sighed. The conversation flagged. The old street, from the porch, looked not so different.

From home to first had been an unconscious roller coaster of fear acidulated by a dogged obsession for sugar and amusement.

From first to second had been the best – but who the heck realised it at the time? Dresses with petticoats, phonograph records, dime-store jobs. They naively thought good was something linear – good got better and better and then best. But the stint from second to third turned tedious – shitty nappies, soggy vegetables, heaters breaking when they most should not, mind-numbing fine print to trawl through, sex that became just one more thing to score through on the to-do list (don't tell him that).

And now the home stretch – failing eyes and cotton stuffed ears. Grown, greying children who called because they were supposed to (versus wanted to) and still could get bitter over dusty faded injuries (both real and imagined). A body that refused to keep pace with the mind. And the fear, coming full circle.