The Weight of Time
His walk is no longer a stride—
it's a slow negotiation with the floor,
like even gravity is whispering,
It's almost time.
Once, he moved like war itself—
two tours,
four unruly sons,
and a wife who sharpened steel with her tongue.
He didn't just survive—he conquered.
Now his hands tremble
like the wind rustling through old branches.
But I know him.
He's not weak—
he's rehearsing how to let go
without scaring us.
Still… time is no fool.
It comes not with fury,
but with patience—
and patience always wins.
Yesterday, he looked at me—
not past me, not through me—
and said,
"I'm proud of everything you've become."
And in that moment,
I wasn't a man—
I was a boy again,
chasing his shadow in the yard,
praying one day
he'd stop to see me.
Maybe this time, he did.
The man of steel,
once bulletproof in my eyes,
now yields to something softer,
something final.
Time—his only worthy opponent—
has found the crack in his armor.
And Mom,
once fire and fortress,
now flickers quietly beside him.
She knows.
They always do.
I am his echo,
his reflection worn in flesh—
his legacy still breathing.
He is my compass,
my spine,
my story.
My old man—
not defeated,
just… fading.
Thank you, God,
for this man who made me.
And thank you,
for letting me love him
long enough to see him
slow down.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem