She asks me how my knees are. It’s a loaded question, and we both know it. She saw me struggle to my feet multiple times last fall. There is the inevitable grunt that follows the creaking of 51-year-old knees that have touched the floor over a 26- year career. “Seriously, Mister. How are those old knees doing?” She asks, grinning like the Cheshire cat that’s swallowed the canary. “As well as either of us can expect,” I answer. That’s as much truth as either of us is prepared to share.