When Time Still Stands to Be Honored

They walk slower now,

but they carry centuries in their spine.

Every wrinkle is a road

we did not have to walk,

every tremor a price

they already paid for our ease.

They were once the fire

that warmed entire households,

the hands that lifted nations quietly,

without hashtags, without applause,

working before dawn

and resting only when duty allowed.

We call them old

as if age is erosion,

as if time only takes

and never gives back.

But time carved them into witnesses,

into living libraries

no search engine can replace.

Their silence is not emptiness.

It is a room filled with lessons

waiting for someone

patient enough to listen.

They remember hunger

when abundance was a dream.

They remember love

when it meant staying,

not swiping away at the first inconvenience.

They remember promises

that were meant to last a lifetime.

When an elder speaks,

the past leans forward.

History clears its throat.

And the future listens—

whether it admits it or not.

Respect is not politeness.

Respect is pausing your hurry

to walk at their pace.

It is lowering your voice

so their dignity doesn’t have to shout.

It is understanding

that independence is not weakness

and needing help is not failure.

One day,

we will inherit their slow steps,

their fragile mornings,

their quiet afternoons.

And we will pray

the world has learned

how to treat us gently.

So sit with them.

Ask their names again.

Hold their stories like heirlooms.

Because a society that forgets its elders

forgets where it came from—

and a future built without respect

has no foundation to stand on.

Honor them

while they are still here.

Not after.