I’m ninety-two years old. I don’t know how much time I have left. A year, maybe a month. Maybe God will give me a few more quiet mornings.
I’m not saying this to scare anyone. At my age, a man doesn’t scare anyone anymore. He just sees things as they are. My name is Stanisław.
I’ve been sitting in this armchair for years now. Once, I thought I was a very busy man. Work, home, bills, loans, children, repairs, shopping. Winter, coal, lines at the doctor’s, lines at the store.
There was always something more important than life itself. And you know what a man tells himself? Not yet. I’ll rest not yet.
I’ll travel not yet. I’ll call not yet. I’ll apologize not yet. I’ll say I love you not yet.
I’ll get to it in time. Well, let me tell you something. You don’t always get to it in time. That’s the heaviest thing a man understands only at the end.
Because you don’t regret having too little money. You don’t regret that the TV was smaller, that the furniture was old, that the neighbor had a better car. You regret the quiet, foolish things. That you didn’t sit longer at the table.
That you didn’t listen when your wife was talking. That you waved your hand when your child wanted to show you a drawing. That you didn’t visit your brother because there was work to do. That you didn’t call your friend because you’d call tomorrow.
And tomorrow came, but the man was already gone. My wife’s name was Zofia. She was a good woman. Not a saint—there are few saints in this world.
Sometimes she shouted, sometimes she sulked, sometimes she could stay silent all day if I hurt her with a word. But she was good. All her life she said, “Staszek, let’s go to the sea sometime. ”
And I said, “We’ll go, Zosia.
When things calm down. When the children grow up. When we have a little money. When I retire.
”
Well, that time came. Only she no longer had the strength to walk on the beach. Then she didn’t want to travel far anymore. Then she was afraid of the road.
Then the doctor said it was better not to. And then all I had left was her photograph on the nightstand. You know, a man can be right his whole life. He can calculate everything, be sensible, put everything off for later.
But later sometimes comes too late. I had a friend named Heniek. He worked at the plant his whole life. He used to say, “When I retire, I’ll buy myself a fishing rod.
I’ll sit by the water. Nobody will make me get up at five in the morning. ”
We laughed at him. But Heniek even had a notebook.
He wrote down everywhere he would 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. And now I think about that a lot. How many such notebooks are lying in Polish homes? 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 closets? How many words a man never said?
I’m not telling you to throw everything away. I’m not telling you to become foolish in your old age. I’m not telling you to toss money out the window. I’m only saying: don’t put your whole life off for later, because later is a very strange word.
A man thinks it’s waiting somewhere. It isn’t. It slips 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 far. Then there’s no one left to visit. First, he doesn’t say “I’m sorry” because of pride.
Then he stands over a grave and says it to the earth, and the earth doesn’t answer. I had a brother. We quarreled once over something stupid—over a piece of land after our father. Today I don’t even remember exactly what it was about.
I only remember his face and my words. Too sharp. We didn’t talk for a long time. Then his daughter called to say he was in the hospital.
I went. He lay there, that small man I’d fought with as a child, with whom I’d stolen apples from the orchard, with whom I’d shared one blanket in the 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. And you see, a man spends his whole life defending his rightness, and at the end he’d trade all of it for one normal conversation. It’s not worth it. Truly not worth it.
Not every argument has to be won. Not every word has to be the last one. Not everyone needs to see that you’re right. Sometimes it’s better to make tea and just sit quietly.
Because life is made more of tea than of great events. 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 some more soup? ”
A man doesn’t appreciate these things when he has them. And then the apartment becomes quiet.
A kind of silence a young person doesn’t yet understand. The radio plays, the clock ticks, the neighbor closes his door, and you sit there knowing no one will ever walk into the room the way they used to. And then all the important things become small. Papers, bills, old documents, work badges, the certificate for thirty years at the plant.
I used to be proud of that. And that’s fine—a man should work honestly. But I’ll tell you the truth: the plant 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 wanted to impress. But I remember my daughter waiting at the window because I promised to come home early, and I didn’t, because there was overtime.
I remember my son wanting me to go to the match with him. I said, “Another time. ” There was never another time. Today he’s grown, a good man, has his own life, calls when he can.
I don’t hold it against him. I hold it against myself—that I thought work justified everything. It doesn’t. You need bread.
You need a roof. But a man isn’t only for paying bills. A man is also for sitting beside another man. For listening.
For stroking someone’s hand. For saying, “I’m glad you’re here. ”
Simple words. And how hard they are.
At my age, a man doesn’t need much. A clean shirt. Warm tea. Someone who calls.
A little sun on the 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 penny. I wouldn’t pretend so often to be tough. A man spends his whole life pretending to be tough. And then old age comes and shows that every man is soft inside.
Only not everyone admits it. So I’m telling you today: if someone came to your mind while you were listening to me, don’t wait. Call them. Write to them.
Go to them. Say, “I was thinking about you. ” You don’t need big words. Sometimes “How are you?
” is enough. If you have someone to apologize to, do it. Even if your voice trembles. Even if many years have passed.
Pride won’t keep a man warm in the evening. If you have someone to drink tea with, drink it today. Not on some occasion. Not someday.
Today. If there’s still someone at home who remembers you when you were young, sit beside them. Ask about the old days. Record their voice.
Take a photo. Because someday you’ll be searching for that voice in every corner, and you won’t find it. I’m not wise because I’m ninety-two. An old man can also be foolish, can be stubborn, can be blind to his own mistakes.
But old age gives one thing: a man sees what’s left.