June 27th, 2025—just after sunrise. The world was slowly waking, and I—as is my ritual—walked beside my father, whose steps have weathered 87 seasons of life. Each morning stroll is more than a habit; it's a sacred thread that binds generations, a quiet ode to time itself.
That morning, like many before, we greeted the day side by side. He met an old friend, exchanged gentle laughter, and the sky above us felt unremarkable—grey, cold, serene, unaware of what lay ahead.
But fate, in its subtle cruelty, knows no warning.
In front of my workplace (Bona Indah, Souh Jakarta(, his breath grew shallow, and his steps faltered. I caught his hand—cold, like the memory of another hand I once held, my late teacher, Debby Nasution, Rohimahullah whose journey ended with such chilling stillness. That same icy grip whispered of mortality.
Panic clawed at my calm. I was alone with him, helpless but not hopeless. As he whispered prayers between pale lips, I called my wife, asked her to bring the car—just in case. The thought of loss loomed large, uninvited and merciless.
Yet mercy arrived, quiet and steadfast.
We returned home, guided not just by instinct but by faith. A warm glass of water. A gentle massage. Patience. Prayers. And, as if by grace, the color returned to his cheeks, and the strength returned to his frame.
He is still here. Still breathing. Still praying.
This moment, fragile as it was, offered me a truth too often lost in the noise of daily life: we must make time for those we love—not when it is convenient, but when it matters. And every moment matters. The shadow of death walks silently beside us; it does not knock.
So I write this not out of fear, but out of reverence. For mornings like these. For second chances. For the sacred duty of presence.
Hold their hands while you still can. Walk with them. Listen to their stories. Let love be louder than routine.
Because life, in all its quiet beauty, is a fleeting breath—and we must cherish it before it slips into silence.
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