Quality

"Pop, I just wish you had more friends is all," Ian said softly. "Are you sure that you don't want me to drop you off at the senior center for a bit of coffee and chess? I could pick you up after lunch?" Graeme patted the hand that his son had placed on his shoulder. "Quite a while ago, I realized that you don't keep yourself peopled because the white noise feels comforting; you draw people to you because like calls to like ... and you stay close because the love you have between the two of you is of a certain quality." Ian was moved and sat down across from his dad. "But I worry," he started, and Graeme held up a hand. "And that is part of the quality of YOUR love," he said gently. "You've got a way of worrying that is both respectful and productive. But I ... oh, dear boy ... I am not a shallow bit of lonely hoping to pretend I'm not; I've been invested in for decades now by some rare and beyond beautiful individuals, and I am reflecting on that right now - reminding myself of it, because I have a responsibility to not cheapen that while I pay it forward." They both teared up, as was their way, and then they both pretended they hadn't, as was also their way.