I’m sharing this story because I need to apologize—not just to him, but to the version of myself I thought I was. If you have parents who are getting older, or if you’re just too busy to catch your breath, please, take two minutes to read this. It might change the way you look at the person sitting across from you.
My dad, Frank, is eighty-five. He’s a retired carpenter—a man whose hands built the very house I grew up in. But these days, those hands shake when he holds a coffee cup, and his walk has turned into a slow, careful shuffle.
Last Sunday, we were sitting on the back deck of my house in the suburbs. It was one of those humid, sticky afternoons. The air smelled of fresh-cut grass and charcoal from a neighbor’s grill.
I wasn’t really “there.” Physically, yes. But mentally? I was buried in my smartphone, doom-scrolling through emails, checking stock prices, and stressing about the upcoming work week. Dad was just sitting in the wicker chair, staring out at the oak tree in the yard.
Then, a flash of blue landed on the fence. A Blue Jay. Loud and bright.
“What’s that, son?” Dad asked, his voice rasping a bit.
Without looking up from my screen, I muttered, “It’s a Blue Jay, Dad.”
I went back to typing a reply to a coworker.
A few moments passed. The bird hopped to a lower branch.
“What’s that bird, son?” he asked again, staring at it with genuine wonder, as if he hadn’t just asked me thirty seconds ago.
I let out a heavy sigh—loud enough for him to hear. I lowered my phone, annoyed. “Dad, I just told you. It’s a Blue Jay.”
The air between us got thick. He went back to rocking slightly. I went back to my phone.
Then, came the third time.
“What kind of bird is that on the fence, Mike?”
Something inside me just snapped. The stress, the heat, the repetition—it all boiled over.
“It’s a Blue Jay!” I barked, my voice echoing off the siding of the house. “A Blue Jay! A Blue Jay! God, Dad, I’ve told you three times in two minutes! Why aren’t you listening to me?”
The silence that followed was deafening.
Dad didn’t argue. He didn’t yell back. He didn’t even look at me. He just stopped rocking. He gripped the armrests, pushed himself up slowly, and shuffled inside the house without a word.
I sat there, my heart pounding, holding my expensive phone, feeling like the smallest man on earth. I was angry at myself, but my pride kept me glued to the chair. He needs to pay attention, I told myself. It’s exhausting.
Five minutes later, the screen door creaked open.
Dad came back out. He wasn’t holding a coffee or a newspaper. He was holding an old, battered journal. The leather cover was cracked, and the spine was held together with tape. It was his old shop log from when he ran his carpentry business.
He sat down, flipped through the yellowed pages with a wet thumb, and landed on a specific entry. He handed the book to me.
“Read out loud,” he whispered.
I looked down. The handwriting was strong and bold—the handwriting of the man he used to be, forty years ago.
“November 12, 1984.”
I cleared my throat and began to read.
“Today, I took Mikey to the park. He turned three last week. We sat on the bench by the pond and ate ice cream. A Blue Jay landed on the grass in front of us.
Mikey asked me, ‘Daddy, what’s that?’
I told him, ‘It’s a Blue Jay, buddy.’
Then he asked, ‘Daddy, what’s that?’ again. And again.
My son asked me the same question twenty-one times.
And twenty-one times, I hugged him, laughed, and said, ‘That’s a Blue Jay, son.’ I didn’t get mad. I didn’t get frustrated. I just looked at his big, curious eyes and thanked God that he wanted to talk to me. It was the best afternoon of my life.”
My voice cracked before I could finish the paragraph. The words blurred on the page.
That little boy was me.
I was the one asking the questions. I was the one testing his patience, over and over again. And he had answered me every single time with love. He treated my curiosity like a gift, not a burden.
And here I was, forty years later. The roles were reversed. He asked me the same question three times, and I treated him like an inconvenience. I treated his aging memory like a flaw in a machine, rather than the fading of a man who gave me everything.
I closed the book and looked at him.
He was looking at the bird again.
I dropped my phone on the table. It didn’t matter anymore. The emails didn’t matter. The stocks didn’t matter.
I reached over and took his rough, wrinkled hand in mine.
“Dad?” I choked out.
He looked at me, his eyes soft, no anger in them at all.
“It’s a Blue Jay, Dad,” I said, tears streaming down my face. “That’s a beautiful Blue Jay.”
He squeezed my hand. “I know, son. I just like hearing you tell me.”
The Takeaway
We live in a world that demands speed. We want fast internet, fast food, and fast answers. We optimize our lives for efficiency. But you cannot optimize love. You cannot “hack” patience.
We forget that our parents once carried us. They answered our million “whys,” they cleaned up our messes, and they sat by our beds when we were scared of the dark. They gave us their prime years.
Now, all they want is a little bit of our time. They don’t want our money or our advice. They just want to know we’re still there.
If you still have your parents, please remember this: When they repeat themselves, it’s not to annoy you. When they walk slow, it’s not to delay you. They are just trying to stay connected in a world that is moving too fast for them.
One day, that chair on the porch will be empty. And you would give anything—anything—to answer that question just one more time.
Love is patient. Be patient.
