May 16, 2025
Sometimes, when I visit my father at the nursing home, I end up in conversations with various folks who are living there. My dad's memory isn’t what it used to be, and our conversations aren't the two-way exchange they once were. The vibrant, curious, deeply thoughtful man I grew up with—who helped shape so much of who I am—is still there in outline, but the sharpness has been sanded away. These days, we don't talk about current events or plans or the world like we used to, and I miss that more than I can say.
But even now, even in silence or repetition, there are echoes. His attention still sharpens when someone nearby is hurting. Having been a social man all his life, he still keys into how people around him are being treated. If he hears a voice break or sees someone in distress, it reaches him. Empathy, it seems, runs deeper than memory. And in those moments, I still catch a glimpse of the man he was—the man who noticed, who cared, who taught me, by example, to do the same.
And while he might not hold onto our conversations the way he once did, some of the other folks sitting nearby, sharing a table with us? Some of them remember plenty.
They tell stories of their lives. About old jobs and hobbies. About the way streets used to be, or some of the old stores downtown before the malls and then Walmart wiped them out. About growing up with fewer channels on TV, or remote controls that actually made a click noise to change the channel. A hint for the kids—if you ever wondered why some old folks call remotes "the clicker," that's why—once upon a time they clicked for real. And usually, somewhere in the middle of their story, something familiar clicks for me, too. I remember that "Time to make the donuts" commercial—when Dunkin was called Dunkin Donuts and actually made donuts on premise instead of shipping them in from God knows where. Or maybe it's the name of some old TV or movie star that they mention.
We find that little patch of common ground. And I nod, or laugh, or toss in a small memory of my own. And for just a moment, it feels like we’re looking at the same thread stretched out behind us—like we were both tugging on the same bit of the past. And then it’s gone. The conversation moves on, or the nurse wheels someone away, or it’s time for me to go.
But I’ve started to notice something. When I reflect someone’s story back to them—even in a small way, even just by saying “I remember that too”—there’s a spark. A little lift. Maybe it’s recognition. Maybe it’s just a moment of being heard. It’s not dramatic, and I wouldn’t pretend it changes much. But still, it seems to offer something.
I think it might be this: that their story didn’t just pass into silence. That someone else caught it. That it will keep rippling outward, even if just a little.
We don’t always have the power to fix things, or to take away anyone’s burdens. But maybe we can, now and then, be a kind of echo chamber. A small voice that says, “I heard you. That mattered. I’ll carry that with me.”
It costs almost nothing. And I doubt they’ll remember me—I’m just one more face passing through. But the ripple doesn’t have to remember the pebble. It just keeps moving.
So here’s a small invitation, if you’re ever in a waiting room, or on a bench, or next to someone who wants to talk: try catching the thread they’re offering. Tug it gently. Let them know it landed. You don’t have to be wise or special. Just a person who’s willing to hear. A little echo forward.
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