It wasn’t anything big. Just one of those quiet, unexpected moments that caught me off guard and wrapped itself around my heart. I was sitting by the window, sipping my tea, when I glanced over and saw Ed. And in that instant, everything around me slowed down.
advertisement
He was sitting on the floor, cross-legged, with the old radio playing softly in the background. The cat was curled up beside him, and in his hands was that little wooden birdhouse we’d bought years ago but never painted. Ed had found it, dusted it off, and with his shaky but determined hands, he was giving it life—coloring it in soft blues and faded yellows, like he was pouring his memories into each brushstroke.
But it wasn’t just the painting. It was the way he hummed along to the tune playing, not quite in rhythm, but beautifully in his own way. It was the smudge of paint on his cheek, the way his brows furrowed in concentration, and the tiny smile he gave the cat as if she was helping. He was so present. So gentle. So… Ed.
This was the man who once could fix anything, lift anything, go anywhere. And now, with age and illness slowing him down, there he was, finding joy in the smallest, simplest thing. And it was beautiful.
There was something childlike in him in that moment—something pure. And maybe that’s what made it so touching. Because for all the struggle, all the heartache we’ve endured lately, there are still these pockets of peace. These little flickers of light.
And I caught myself whispering, “This is the cutest,” not to anyone in particular—just to the universe. Because it was. Not staged, not grand, not shared on a screen. Just Ed. Just love, quiet and soft, painted in sunlight and memory.
Later, when I helped him wash the paint from his hands, he looked at me and said, “It’s nice to make something pretty again.” And I smiled through my tears.
Yes, Ed. It is.
And you did.
advertisement