10/27/2025
The last time my father, Frank, drove a car, he left it idling in the driveway for three hours — keys in the ignition, radio softly playing an oldies station from the 60s.
A neighbor had to come knock on the door.
That was the day we knew.
The world, for him, had to get smaller.
He’s 87 now.
His universe has shrunk to the four walls of the home he built in 1968, after coming back from Vietnam.
His longest journey these days is from the old leather armchair — the one molded perfectly to his shape — to the porch swing out front.
There, with his coffee and his silence, he watches the world move on without him.
I drove down last Sunday.
Not because it was his birthday, or a holiday, but because of that quiet, guilty feeling in my gut that said, go while you still can.
He was in his chair, as always, the TV too loud and the coffee too strong.
When he saw me through the screen door, his face softened into that slow, worn smile I’d been missing.
“Well, look what the cat dragged in,” he said — his way of saying I’m glad you came, without having to say it.
We sat in silence for a while.
Not an awkward silence — a comfortable one. The kind that holds more love than words ever could.
He told the same stories he always tells: the strike of ’78, the steel mill, Fort Bragg, my mother’s lasagna that could feed a small army.
I’d heard them all before — but this time, I listened differently.
Because in between those stories, I heard something else.
A man trying to remind the world who he used to be.
A man who just wanted to be seen.
He took a slow sip of his coffee, looked at me over the rim, and said something that will stay with me forever:
“You know… when you’re here, the house doesn’t feel so damn old.”
It wasn’t the house he meant.
It was himself.
He was the one growing older in the quiet, waiting for someone to bring life back into those rooms.
And that’s when it hit me:
Love doesn’t always sound like “I love you.”
Sometimes, it sounds like “Stay a little longer.”
Sometimes, it sounds like “When you’re here, I remember who I am.”
So call them. Visit them.
Drink the burnt coffee. Listen to the same old stories.
Because one day, that chair across from you will be empty — and you’ll wish you’d stayed just a little longer.
Don’t wait for the right time.
The right time is now.
Your presence isn’t small to them.
It’s everything.
Let this story reach more hearts. 🧡
