Dear kids,
I spend the quiet Hanoi mornings playing chess with your great-grandfather. It started as something simple: a way to keep him company, to slow down my own racing thoughts. When you’re young, aging feels like a distant concept – something that mostly means slowing down, forgetting things, losing sharpness. But sitting across from him, I started to see something else. Aging isn’t just about what fades. It’s about what deepens. It humbles you – not in a way that breaks you, but in a way that softens you. It reveals how interdependent we really are. How asking for help, or accepting slowness, isn’t weakness at all – it’s part of being beautifully, enduringly human. But over time, it became something else. A mirror. A window. A quiet education in what it means to grow old, and still remain wonderfully, defiantly human.
He used to be a professor. The kind who never raised his voice, but commanded the room by simply asking the right question. He wore mismatched socks, not out of carelessness, but because he had more interesting things to think about. Students adored him. Not because he made things easy – but because he made you want to meet him where he was.
Now, he’s long retired. His hands tremble slightly. His memory, once razor-sharp, comes and goes like a tide. But the essence of him is still there – curious, steady, and deeply present. And sitting across from him, watching him puzzle over the board, I realize: he’s still teaching me.
One morning, he reached for his knight. His fingers hovered, then shook. I moved to help – instinctively – but he stopped me with just a look. Calm. Clear. “Let me try,” he said. It took him a while. His fingers fumbled, the piece tipped. But eventually, he made the move. And in that slow, deliberate gesture, I saw something I hadn’t understood until then. That even the smallest act, done with effort, can hold profound dignity. Sometimes, love isn’t about stepping in – it’s about stepping back, letting someone keep the little freedoms that still belong to them.
Another morning, I forgot to warm the tea. He took one sip and winced – just slightly. “Cold,” he murmured, more to himself than to me. I rushed to fix it, but he paused, holding the cup like it held more than just liquid. “I used to drink tea like this on exam mornings,” he said. “Too nervous to notice the temperature.” What I heard wasn’t a complaint – it was a thread. A memory wrapped in the quiet detail of a morning cup. I began to realize that for him, and maybe for many of us, memory doesn’t disappear – it just lives in smaller places. A taste, a scent, a rhythm in the day.
He always insists on setting the board himself. Each morning, I offer. Each morning, he declines. When I finally asked why, he said, “It’s the only thing I still do without second-guessing myself.” It landed gently, but heavily. In a life where so much is no longer in his hands, this one small routine is his anchor. Letting him hold onto it, even if it takes longer or isn’t perfectly aligned, is not indulgence – it’s respect.
Mid-conversation once, he stopped speaking. He was searching for a place we’d visited together. I could see the word just out of reach in his eyes. The silence stretched, and I almost jumped in. But I didn’t. I waited. And eventually, he smiled and said, “Moscow.” It’s a simple thing, but it taught me something I think about often: waiting can be a form of love. Giving someone the time to find their own voice, even when it’s slow, even when it’s hard – it’s a way of saying, “I believe in you.”
I’ve also started to notice how his world has grown smaller. The grand ideas he once debated have been replaced by simpler concerns – whether the toast is too dark, if the mail has come, whether I remembered the honey he likes. At first, I found it quietly heartbreaking. But then I realized – the emotions tied to these small things haven’t diminished. They’ve deepened. A cup of tea, just right, can make his whole morning. A forgotten blanket can linger in his mood for hours. When life narrows, the details become the whole world. And those details matter, deeply. Because they’re often the last pieces of the world you can still shape.
One afternoon, as we were resetting the board, he lingered a little longer than usual. His fingers traced the edge of a bishop, absentmindedly. Then, almost as if thinking out loud, he said, “I sometimes wonder if my students remember anything I taught.”
He didn’t say it with regret – more like he was tossing a pebble into a still pond, curious to see if it would ripple.
I looked at him, at the lines on his face, the quiet way he waited without really waiting. “They do,” I said. “I’ve never even been in one of your classrooms, and I remember what you teach me. Every day.”
He smiled, small and satisfied, and moved his rook into place. The moment passed like a breeze – light, but lingering.
It reminded me: we never really stop wanting to know we made a difference. We never stop hoping that something we gave the world still lives somewhere – in a memory, in a habit, in the quiet morning game of someone we love.
I didn’t expect these mornings to change me. But they did. They reminded me that the things we chase – success, speed, significance – all dissolve eventually. What stays is how we made people feel. The patience we offered. The dignity we protected. The love we showed, not through grand gestures, but in staying present. In staying.
One day, I’ll be older too. If I forget your name for a moment, or stir my tea three times before speaking, be patient with me. Ask me something. Sit with me. Let the silence stretch. I’ll still be there, somewhere in the pauses.
And maybe we’ll play a game. Or share a cup of tea. Or just sit in the same light that used to shine across a chessboard, on quiet mornings, where I learned how to grow old with grace.
Because more than anything, I’ve come to understand that connection – real, intentional connection – is what keeps us alive in the truest sense. Not just being in the same room, but being present. Asking questions. Drawing each other out. Making someone feel like they still have something to give, even if it’s just a memory or a story or a smile. The deepest loneliness isn’t the absence of company – it’s the absence of being seen.
So when I’m older, what I hope for is simple: a full room, not of things, but of people. I want to hear laughter from the kitchen. I want someone to ask what songs I loved or what mischief I got into when I still ran instead of shuffled. I want to be pulled into life, even if I’m moving more slowly through it. Because to feel needed – even a little – is to feel alive.
With love,
mom <3
