Keeping Up with a Lonely Life
Why do I feel so lonesome—
an independent, mature old man,
self-assured, free as a bird,
yet wishing for another bird
to chirp beside me
in the quiet branches of life?
How gently my heart awakens
when I am with my children and grandchildren—
helping young and grown-up hands,
sharing their laughter, their stories, their dreams.
Their voices become songs
that fill the empty rooms of my heart.
A helping hand, a shoulder to lean on,
a family journey through the wonders of a vacation—
for a while, loneliness loses my address.
I once thought I had a thousand friends
scattered across Facebook and social media.
I read a post, press a thumb,
and watch a little heart appear.
We touch each other's lives
with a fingertip,
then everyone disappears
behind their glowing screens.
And somehow
the silence grows louder.
Loneliness follows me
like a long shadow at sunset.
I wander through its desert,
thirsty for a human voice,
and sometimes in the distance
I see a shimmering lake—
a beautiful mirage of companionship.
I walk toward it,
but the water retreats.
They tell me,
"Get up. Go out. Socialize.
Meet people. Make new friends."
But the old gathering places
have become quiet streets.
The parties have dwindled,
the familiar chairs are empty.
Some friends have traveled
to a heavenly abode,
and others can no longer travel
without a helping hand.
Time has quietly rearranged
the landscape of friendship.
So I turn to television,
to games, to books,
to the flickering company of a screen.
For a few hours
the house is no longer silent.
The characters laugh,
the players compete,
and I borrow their excitement.
But when the screen goes dark,
the old silence returns
and sits beside me.
So what is the answer?
Perhaps loneliness is not a door
that can simply be locked and forgotten.
Perhaps it is a window—
asking me to look beyond myself.
Perhaps I need not search
for a thousand friends.
Perhaps one sincere conversation,
one familiar voice,
one cup of tea shared without hurry,
can be enough to light a candle
in a very large room.
I have spent a lifetime
learning how to stand alone.
Perhaps now
I must learn something different:
how to leave the door ajar,
how to welcome a passing bird,
how to listen for its song,
and how to sing back.
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