Don’t Wait

The hallway smelled faintly of lemon furniture polish and warm soup drifting from the kitchen down the corridor. Quinn’s nails clicked gently against the tiled floor, a rhythm that always announced our arrival before we rounded the corner. His blue bandanna, bright against his golden fur, caught the overhead light as if carrying its own small flame. Residents lifted their eyes when they saw him, some whispering his name, others just reaching out a trembling hand.

We paused at a doorway where a man sat hunched in his wheelchair, his gaze fixed on the window. His lips were pressed into a thin line, his fingers restless in his lap. When Quinn padded closer, the man’s stiff hand softened, opening like a flower as it met fur. The change was immediate, as though he had been waiting for this touch longer than words could say.

I crouched beside him, the odor that clings in the air a mixture of antiseptic and the faint sweetness of talcum powder on his clothes. His voice came out low, cracked by years of silence. “I never told her… that I forgave her.”

The room grew still. Even the hum of the air conditioner seemed to fade. Quinn pressed his head into the man’s chest, his heartbeat thudding steady and strong against fragile ribs. Tears welled, and his eyes, blue and clouded by age yet sharp with sudden clarity, found mine.

“Don’t wait,” he whispered. “Don’t wait like I did. The words burn inside you when you hold them back. They change you. They grow heavy and cold, and soon you start to carry them like chains. I thought I had time. We always think we have time.”

He turned his head slightly toward the window, where pale sunlight reached across the floor. His lips trembled, and then he added, almost in a breath, “I thought forgiveness would find its way on its own. I thought love unspoken was still love. But silence does not heal. Silence steals. Say it while you can. Say it even if your voice shakes.”

His confession clung to the air, weighty and sacred. I thought of the phone calls never made, the letters never written, the embraces postponed until a better time. I thought of Abby, my first Golden, how many times I wished I had said more, done more, held on longer. The ache of loss pressed at my chest, yet Quinn’s tail brushed my leg, steady and reassuring.

“Thank you,” I told him. Not because I had answers, but because he had entrusted me with his truth. Quinn lingered at his side, breathing in sync with the man, as if holding the space where regret met release. For a moment, it was as if the world slowed down. The soft hum of distant voices, the faint rustle of curtains, the gentle weight of paws grounded us to the present.

Later, when we walked back down the hall, Quinn turned his head toward me, eyes warm, as though echoing the man’s words: Don’t wait.

And I knew. The lesson was not just his. It was mine too.
Do not wait to forgive.
Do not wait to love.
Do not wait to live.
Because the chance to speak, to embrace, to truly see one another may never come again.