Many sons think talking to their old parents is the most boring thing in life
He asked me the same question three times in five minutes — and I was this close to snapping at the man who once answered me twenty-seven times in a row, smiling every single time. My dad is eighty-three now. He walks slower, speaks softer, but his eyes still carry that same quiet spark when he looks at the world. That evening we were sitting together on the old front porch of our house — the same one I grew up in. The wooden chairs creaked gently, and the air smelled like freshly cut grass, apple blossoms, and a warm summer night. Suddenly — a flash of color on the fence. A small blue-and-yellow bird, maybe a chickadee, landed on one of the boards. “What kind of bird is that, son?” my dad asked quietly. “A chickadee, Dad,” I said, not even looking up from my phone. A few seconds of silence. “And what kind of bird is that?” he asked again. I sighed louder. “I just told you, Dad. A chickadee.” His chair stopped rocking. The air between us felt heavy, like right before a storm. And then ...
