The silence in my apartment is the only thing that never leaves me. At ninety-two, I sit in this armchair and I see things exactly as they are. No one is frightened by an old man, and at my age, you stop pretending. My name is Stanisław.
I spent my whole life busy. Work, house, bills, loan, children, repairs, shopping. Winter meant hauling coal, standing in line at the doctor. There was always something more important than life itself.
And do you know what a man tells himself? Not yet. Not yet I’ll rest. Not yet I’ll go.
Not yet I’ll call. Not yet I’ll apologize. Not yet I’ll say “I love you. ” I’ll still make it in time.
Well, let me tell you something. You don’t always make it. That is the hardest lesson a person learns, and you only learn it at the very end. Because when the end comes, you don’t regret having too little money.
You don’t regret the smaller television, the old furniture, or the neighbor’s better car. You regret the stupid, quiet things. You regret not sitting longer at the table. You regret not listening when your wife was telling you something.
You regret waving your hand when your child wanted to show you a drawing. You regret not visiting your brother because there was work to do, not calling a friend because you could always call tomorrow. And tomorrow came, but the person was already gone. My wife’s name was Zofia.
She was a good woman. She was no saint—saints are rare in this world—but she was good. She would shout sometimes, get angry, and sometimes she could stay silent all day if I hurt her with a word. All her life she kept saying, “Staszek, let’s go to the sea one day.
”
And I would say, “We’ll go, Zosia, when things calm down. When the children grow up. When we have a little money. When I retire.
”
That time finally came. Only she no longer had the strength to walk on the beach. Then she didn’t want to travel so far. Then she was afraid of the road.
Then the doctor said it was better not to. And then all that was left of her was a photograph on the dresser. You can be right your whole life. You can calculate everything, be reasonable, put everything off for later.
But later sometimes comes too late. I had a friend named Heniek. He worked in a factory his whole life. He always said, “When I retire, I’m going to buy myself a fishing rod and sit by the water.
No one will make me get up at five in the morning. ”
We laughed at him. Heniek even had a notebook. He wrote down every place he wanted to go.
Masuria, the Bieszczady Mountains, a spa in Ciechocinek, his sister’s place near Lublin. He retired in March. We buried him in May. The notebook stayed in the drawer.
I think about that a lot now. How many notebooks like that lie in houses all over the country? How many plans? How many photographs no one will ever look at again?
How many dresses saved for a better occasion? How many suits hanging in the closet? How many words a man never said? I’m not telling you to throw everything away.
I’m not telling you to act foolish in your old age. I’m not telling you to throw money out the window. I’m only telling you: don’t put your whole life off for later, because later is a very strange word. A man thinks it’s waiting for him somewhere, but it’s not waiting.
It runs away quietly, without noise, without knocking on the door. First, a man doesn’t go for a walk because his knee hurts. Then he doesn’t go because he’s afraid of the stairs. First, he doesn’t visit someone because it’s too far.
Then there’s no one left to visit. First, he doesn’t say “I’m sorry” because of his pride. Then he stands over a grave and says it to the earth, and the earth doesn’t answer. I had a brother.
We argued once over something stupid—a piece of land after our father. Today I don’t even remember what it was about. I only remember his face and my own words. Too sharp.
We didn’t speak for a long time. Then his daughter called to say he was in the hospital. I went. He lay there, a small man.
This was the person I’d fought with as a child, the one I’d stolen apples with from the orchard, the one I’d shared one blanket with in winter. I held his hand. I wanted to say “I’m sorry,” but he was already far away. Whether he heard me or not, I don’t know.
You see, a man spends his whole life defending his rightness. And at the end, he would trade all that rightness for one normal conversation. It’s not worth it. Really, it’s not.
Not every argument has to be won. Not every word has to be the last one. Not everyone needs to be shown that you were right. Sometimes it’s better to make some tea and just sit together.
Because life is made more of tea than of great events. It’s made of a slice of bread, of someone’s footsteps in the kitchen, of a towel on the radiator, of a voice from the next room, of someone asking, “Would you like more soup? ”
A man doesn’t appreciate that when he has it. And then the apartment becomes quiet.
The kind of silence a young person doesn’t know yet. The radio plays, the clock ticks, a neighbor closes their door, and you sit there knowing that no one will ever walk into your room the way they used to. And then all the important things become small. Papers, bills, old documents, work badges, the diploma for thirty years of service.
Once I was proud of that, and that was fine. A man should work honestly. But I’ll tell you the truth: that factory no longer exists. No one remembers the director.
The machines went to scrap. The people scattered. And sometimes I can’t even remember the names of the people I once wanted to impress. But I remember my daughter waiting by the window because I promised to come home early, and I didn’t—there was overtime.
I remember my son wanting me to go to the match with him. I said, “Next time. ” There was no next time. Today he’s an adult, a good man, he has his own life, he calls when he can.
I don’t hold it against him. I hold it against myself that I once thought work excused everything. It doesn’t. You need bread.
You need a roof. But a man isn’t only made for paying bills. A man is also made for sitting next to another person, for listening, for stroking a hand, for saying, “I’m glad you’re here. ” Such simple words.
And so hard to say. At my age, a man doesn’t need much. A clean shirt, warm tea, someone who calls, a little sun on your face, a peaceful night. But if I could go back, I wouldn’t buy a bigger apartment.
I wouldn’t work more. I wouldn’t argue over every złoty. I wouldn’t pretend so often to be tough. A man spends his whole life pretending to be hard.
Then old age comes and shows you that every person is soft inside. Not everyone admits it. So I’m telling you this today. If someone came to your mind while you were reading this, don’t wait.
Call them. Write to them. Go to them. Say, “I was thinking about you.
” You don’t need great words. Sometimes “How are you? ” is enough. If you have someone to apologize to, do it.
Even if your voice shakes. Even if many years have passed. Pride won’t warm a man in the evening. If you have someone to drink tea with, drink it today.
Not when it’s convenient. Not someday. Today. If there’s still someone at home who remembers you when you were young, sit next to them.
Ask them about the old days. Record their voice. Take a photo. Because one day you’ll be searching for that voice in every corner of the house, and you won’t find it.
I’m not wise because I’m ninety-two. An old man can still be foolish. He can still be stubborn. He can still be blind to his own mistakes.
But old age gives you one thing: you finally see what remains.