The box was Grandpa’s memory box, filled with old photos—my parents, me as a child—and, at the bottom, every birthday card I had ever sent. He had kept them all.
At the hospital, I found him frail but alive. His eyes lit up when they met mine.
“Caleb,” he whispered. “You came.”
I apologized through tears. He grasped my hand. “You’re here now. That’s all that matters.”
For a week, I stayed, listening to his stories, learning more about my parents, and reading his journals that recorded our family history. He wanted me to know everything, determined I wouldn’t lose it.
Now, Grandpa lives near the hospital. Every weekend, I visit. Every June 6, I’m there for his birthday, eating pot roast, listening, laughing, cherishing every moment.
People don’t live forever. Their love, presence, and stories are fragile. I almost let pride and excuses steal them from me.
If you’re putting off visiting someone who loves you, thinking there will always be time, don’t. Time runs out. Don’t wait until the call stops coming.
