When Ruby was little, her father was her sun, her moon, the stars. He was a big, capable, educated man, principled about his conduct and devoted to his family, and he doted on her.

She was his oldest child, his only child till she was five, and forever his one daughter. He loved her mother too, so he spent much happy time at home.

He wasn’t a hippie, but he wasn’t overly modest either. Until Ruby was six or seven, she occasionally saw him unclothed. Briefly she eyed his penis a few times. I only mention that for general consciousness-raising – for goodness sakes, Dads, if you’re going to let your little girl see your dick when she’s young, permit continuing glimpses later, or the child will grow up with unrealistic expectations about the size and pendulousness of the generative organ. But that’s not what this narrative is about. Let me proceed.

Ruby’s father-appreciation dimmed a little as she aged. She continued to love him, and he continued to be her dominant parent and life guide, but she learned in junior high that he could be wrong about pronunciation and philosophy. When she was in high school, he thought he had control over what she wore, and in college over what she did with her body. These flaws helped Ruby define herself as an individual completely separate from her beloved dad.

She’ll never forget the day she discovered his vulnerability and envisioned his debility. She was commuting home after a day of work in San Francisco. She sat as usual on the starboard side of the trolley, next to a window, and she gazed at the pedestrians on the sidewalk. Among them was her father. That coincidence had never occurred before.

He was not in distress. He moved jauntily along with the other south-facing walkers, his posture good and his stride impressive, his briefcase swinging at the end of his right arm. He might have been whistling – he looked so well and happy.

But Ruby was struck like a stone hit her chest. She almost choked with sudden grief. She was clobbered by the certainty that her father was aging, that he was alone but surrounded by possible threats, that someday in the not unforeseeable future he’d be infirm, tender, unable to stand tall or speak firmly or take care of anyone.

Ruby was 18 when she rode that trolley. Her father was 45.