Tonight, on my way home with a box of pizza, I passed by a small cemetery. Under the dim streetlights, I saw an elderly man sitting quietly by a grave. No flowers, no candles—just him and a cold, silent headstone.
I don’t know why, but something in me told me to stop. Maybe it was the way he sat—so still, so broken. Maybe because I, too, have known loss.
I walked over slowly and asked gently:
“Can I give you a hug?”
He looked up, tired eyes meeting mine.
He nodded.
I bent down and hugged him like I would hug my own father.
After a moment of silence, he whispered:
“I just buried my wife last week. She was everything to me. We were together for over 40 years... and now I don’t know how to go on.”
My heart tightened in my chest.
“I come here every evening,” he continued. “I tell her about my day, the weather, what I ate... I ask if she misses me. But she never answers.”
I squeezed his hand.
“I believe she hears you. And I’m sure she’s proud to be so deeply loved.”
He let out a soft, sad smile, tears sliding down his cheeks.
“She used to say I never told her I loved her enough. I thought just being there every day was enough. Now... I’d give anything for one more chance to say, ‘I love you.’ Just one more day.”
I couldn’t hold back my tears.
I opened the pizza box and offered him a slice.
“I don’t know what else to do... but maybe we could share dinner? At least tonight, you won’t be alone.”
He looked at me, eyes full of gratitude.
“Thank you, dear. She would’ve liked that. She loved cheese pizza.”
We sat there for a while. No more words. Just the wind, and the quiet heartbeat of a moment shared between the living and the memory of the lost.
Life is fragile. We rush, we forget, we assume we have time.
If you love someone, don’t wait.
Say it. Show it. Be there.
Because tomorrow… might never come.
