It was the second day of a camping trip in Maine with his father when Mr. Walker began to worry. He knew his father was a remarkably fit man for his advanced age, yet the thought of a disastrous fall, an accident slip had lodged itself in his head. The camping trip had been his idea, and his dad had been overjoyed about his proposal. They used to go camping all the time when he was a kid, so he thought it would be a good bonding experience. After all, he and his dad had begun to grow apart as they got older, and he didn’t know how many more chances they would get.
                    Mr. Walker was the conductor of a professional orchestra. He loved standing on the podium, baton in hand, with the power to sculpt the music to his own liking. Outside of the concert hall, though, he had a nervous disposition. Worry always slipped into the gaps between his clothes and his skin, nested in his pores, hid under his fingernails, and unless he was holding a baton, it never washed away.
                  They woke up early in the morning, packed their bags, and started hiking. As they walked , Mr. Walker began to take notice of the asymmetries in his father’s gait. Each step his father took made him more uneasy, and he began to wonder what would happen if he lost his balance.
“We should do this more often like we used to,” his dad said.
“I’d love to,” he replied, knowing that was the last thing he wanted after watching his father’s uneven steps.
                   When they finally paused to eat lunch, sitting on a rock, a leaf fell in his lap. It was turning to autumn, and the first leaves were starting to fall. Something about this leaf struck him; it was almost completely green, yet the veins of the leaf emanated a dark brown. It looked so alive, yet death was sudden and swift, not giving it the courtesy to ab sorb the fall colors before taking its life.
“Dad–,” he began. His dad turned to him.
                   He looked at his dad, and for the first time he noticed—really noticed—his age, but he still had the same smile he had 30 years ago. He didn’t want to be the one to take that smile from him.
“Nevermind.”
                   When they started walking again, Mr. Walker once again carried his burden of worry. Each of his dad’s steps felt like a threat. I will do it; just wait. Yet his dad had a smile glued to his face. What did he know? His dad was walking through a minefield, and he had no idea.
                    Suddenly, a thought occurred to him. He could orchestrate a fall of his own, this way he wouldn’t have to break his dad’s heart. He was delighted with this idea; he had his baton back and nature was his orchestra. He looked at the rocks in front of him, deciding when he would queue the big entrance, but it turned out that he didn’t have to choose because the rocks chose for him. He slipped and banged his knee on a rock, and his dad rushed over to see if he was okay. As he got up, his knee screamed with pain, but he kept completely silent.
“Are you okay? Do you need me to get you help?” His dad asked.
                     His knee hurt, but to have his dad walk back alone would be to lose his baton and let fate conduct, and that hurt even more.
“Let’s go back together,” he responded.
                   They walked back, and despite the pain in his knee only getting worse, Mr. Walker enjoyed every second with his dad. He may have lost his tempo at some points, but he was relieved that he was the one with the baton