I Met My Old Man

I met my old man over the weekend; he has aged well. Some people call him a white man now, the hair that comes with wisdom. You can’t tell he is seventy, though; his face is not wrinkly, nor does it look tired. He still looks like he has a lot to live for. The eyes are always calm. I have come a long way, and I can read his thoughts a bit now. He has been a good guide. He said I should learn to read people’s faces; they reveal traces of hidden intentions and character. I try to shadow his ways; over the years, he has achieved so much with so little. As I get older, I realize he was calculative, strategic, disciplined, and a master of himself. This is why I look at myself and gauge how corruptible I have been. One thing is certain: I am nowhere near that man. I see how other people look at and address him. After retiring, he has been very charitable, mostly helping the youth and other folks around our hometown. He has been a teacher all his life. Anyway, as I was shaking his hand, he turned to my sister and said, “Yes, a firm handshake!” a sign that I have been eating well at least. It made him smile. Then I made a joke and told him he hasn’t aged one bit. He retaliated, “You would like that so that I can hand over my things to you!” We all laughed. I like that he is around; we have amazing heartfelt conversations whenever we get the chance. On most days, he reminds me I am not getting any younger. I know I am not, and there are some things I’d like to set straight first. I understand that time waits for no man, but what happens when you feel a little unprepared?

That’s the silent war no one talks about—the tension between the man you are and the man you were raised to become. My old man never said much about his struggles, not directly. But I saw it in the long pauses between his words, in the early mornings before anyone else stirred, and in the quiet sighs after a day's labor. He was a man who wore patience like armor and moved through life with quiet authority, as if time itself respected his rhythm. Growing up, I often mistook that calm for distance. It’s only now that I see it for what it was—restraint, strength, love in a form not easily understood by a boy still learning the world. He wasn’t one to hover, but he was always there. Like gravity—unseen, yet completely unshakable. He built his life on principles—integrity, discipline, and consistency—and let those things speak louder than any lecture ever could.

I think back to the days when I would question his decisions, too young to understand the weight he carried. He bore it all silently—the expectations of a family, the weight of being dependable, and the invisible burden of being the example. And not just any example—the *standard.* The bar. “The unspoken blueprint.” Now, with years catching up to me, I carry fragments of him in everything I do—in the way I think before I speak, in the way I approach chaos with a calm mind, and in how I offer a firm handshake and mean it. Yet, I wonder if I’ve done justice to the things he tried to teach without words. I wonder if I’ve honored the sacrifices he never asked for applause for. I wonder if I’ve been half the man he tried to be when no one was watching.

There’s a kind of nobility in fathers like mine. Men who didn’t ask the world to be fair but chose to be fair anyway. Men who didn’t seek validation but left legacies in the lives they touched. Men who, even in retirement, don’t slow down but evolve—guiding the younger generation, not with noise, but with presence. You start to realize that a father’s value isn’t just in what he provides, but in the space he holds—the emotional stability, the discipline of silence, and the consistency of love even when it’s cloaked in hard truths. His presence, even now, continues to shape the man I’m becoming. And in those moments of uncertainty—when I feel unprepared, when I feel I’ve lost grip of the script—I still look to him. Not for answers, but for alignment. Maybe that’s the greatest gift a father can offer: not solutions, but a compass. A steady example of how to walk the path, even when the way is unclear. So yes, I may feel unprepared at times. But I carry in me the quiet fire of a man who’s walked before me—who made something from little, who planted more than he harvested, who lived so his children could live better. And that’s enough for now. One day, I hope to age with the same grace, wisdom, and peace he carries. But until then, I’ll keep walking—firm, observant, and honest—just like he taught me.