The Solo Pour

When I was 29, my dad died of cancer.

At the time, I was living in Tallahassee and he was in Kissimmee. Every weekend, I got in the car and made that drive. Not because it was convenient. Not because I had extra time. I made the drive because I knew it mattered.

I sat with him. I listened. We talked about everything and sometimes nothing at all.

If I am being honest, part of it was selfish. I did not want to stand at his funeral one day wishing I had done more. I did not want regret to show up after he was gone.

So I showed up while he was still here.

Now my mom is 88. She is not sick, but she is older. And I understand something now that I did not fully understand back then. These everyday moments matter more than we realize. Not in big dramatic ways. Just quietly, steadily becoming the moments we will remember.

So every other weekend, I go.

We sit. We talk. We laugh. I listen to stories I have heard before and some I am hearing for the first time, and I appreciate them more than I used to. I ask questions I did not think to ask years ago. I pay attention in a way that feels more intentional, more aware.

As I have thought about those weekends, both then and now, something has become clear.

We should live more of our life this way.

Not just when someone is sick. Not just when something feels urgent. But now. In the middle of ordinary days.

Making space for people.

Really listening. Not half listening while thinking about the next thing. Not rushing conversations. Not assuming there will always be another chance.

There will not.

This exact conversation. This exact version of someone. This exact moment in time.

It will never happen again in the same way.

That is not meant to feel heavy. It is meant to wake us up.

There is so much to learn if we slow down long enough to hear it. There is so much of life sitting right in front of us, waiting to be noticed.

So listen a little longer.

Stay a little later.

Ask one more question.

Take it in while you can.

Because one day, you will not be able to.

And when that day comes, you will either wish you had made the time…

or be grateful that you did.