Bob Morris used to push his old father to walk more. On a visit to NY, his dad struggled to walk up a a broken escalator out of the subway.

Strange as it sounds, I felt pleased he had gotten a good workout.
In the year that followed, as his heart grew weaker, I kept at him to
walk with me. Worn out after a good life, he’d refuse, and I’d be
angry. What he really needed was more affection, not exercise. Yet I
kept trying to impose my will on both my parents right to the end. How
dare they become so old?

I think about them now, when I go out
walking with such determination it’s almost as if I’m trying to walk
away from myself. I’ve heard that you’re only free to become the adult
you have always meant to be when both your parents are gone. But often
I just wish I could have been someone else when they were alive.

I loved this essay, because the broken subway escalator is such a city thing. It’s part of the hell/heaven experience of Manhattan living. It also reminded me of my own misplaced self-improvement plans for my grandmother and how much I miss her every day.