Presence

 

My father measured his loneliness in unfinished birdhouses, one for every broken promise I made. I just didn’t know it until the silence became deafening.

His name was Frank, but I just called him Pop. He lived in the same small house in Ohio that I grew up in, a world away from my glass-and-steel existence as a financial advisor in New York City. We had our ritual: every Sunday, 4 PM sharp, a FaceTime call. It was my way of "checking in," a scheduled ten-minute slot to prove I was a good son.

Every call, he’d be in the garage, the smell of sawdust practically wafting through the screen. And on his workbench, there was always the birdhouse.

“Still tinkering with that thing, Pop?” I’d ask, glancing at my watch.

“Yep,” he’d reply, his voice a low rumble. He’d hold up a piece of pine, turning it over in his calloused hands. “Just something to keep my hands busy.”

To me, it was a harmless hobby. A sign that he was okay. He was active, engaged, self-sufficient. He didn’t need me. The birdhouse was my proof, my convenient excuse. I’d send money for his birthday and Christmas, convinced that my financial support was a fair substitute for my physical presence.

Last Thanksgiving, my wife, Sarah, wanted to take the kids to Cancún. “It’ll be easier than flying everyone to Ohio, Jake,” she reasoned. “Your dad will understand.”

And he did. When I called to tell him, his face on the screen didn't betray a thing. “Of course, son. You have your own family to think about. You kids go have fun.” He paused, then picked up his sander. “Don’t you worry about me. I’ve got my project right here.”

I felt a pang of guilt, but it vanished as quickly as it came. He understood. He always did.

The call came on a Tuesday. A nurse with a calm, practiced voice. There’d been an accident. A fall. A broken hip. “He’s stable,” she said, “but he’s asking for you.”

The flight to Ohio was a blur of panic and regret. I walked into the old house, and the silence hit me like a physical blow. It was the same house, but the life had been sucked out of it. It smelled of stale coffee and dust.

I needed to find his insurance papers, and I knew he kept them in the old file cabinet in the garage. I pushed the door open, the familiar scent of cut wood and oil filling my lungs. The workbench was there, and on it, an unfinished birdhouse—four walls, no roof.

But as my eyes adjusted to the dim light, I saw something else in the corner, tucked away under a dusty tarp. I pulled it back.

My breath caught in my throat.

It wasn’t one birdhouse. It was dozens. Row upon row of them, all identical, all in various states of incompletion. They were like a silent, wooden army of disappointment.

I stumbled forward, my hands shaking. What was this? Why would he make so many? Then I saw it. Scrawled in faint pencil on the bottom of the one closest to me was a date: July 4th, 2023. The weekend I’d promised to come for the fireworks but canceled because of a "client emergency."

I picked up another. Sept 3rd, 2023. Labor Day weekend, when I’d opted for a trip to the Hamptons instead. My legs gave out and I sank to the concrete floor. One by one, I checked the dates. My birthday. His birthday. The Super Bowl Sunday I was supposed to watch with him. And there, near the front, was the newest one, its wood still pale and fresh. Thanksgiving Day, 2023.

He wasn’t just “tinkering.” He was marking time. He was building monuments to moments that never happened. Each unfinished project wasn't a hobby; it was a quiet scream into a silent house, a tangible piece of hope that died when the phone rang with my excuses.

I sat there, on the cold floor of my father’s garage, surrounded by the evidence of my failure, and I wept.

Later, at the hospital, I walked into his room. He looked small and frail against the white sheets. His eyes fluttered open, and a weak smile touched his lips.

“You came,” he whispered.

I couldn’t speak. I just walked to his bed, took his rough, worn-out hand in mine, and held on tight. The words “I’m sorry” felt cheap, meaningless. Presence was the only apology that mattered now.

We think our loved ones need our presents, our phone calls, our financial support. But what they truly need is our presence. Don’t let the people you love build a collection of unfinished birdhouses while they wait for you. Show up. Because one day, you’ll walk into their garage and realize you’ve run out of time to help them finish a single one.

Source: Things That Make You Think on Facebook

ai artwork by me