An 80-year-old man was sitting on the sofa in his house along with his 45-year-old highly educated son. Suddenly a crow perched on their window. The Father asked his Son, "What is this?" The Son replied "It is a crow". After a few minutes, the Father asked again...
The afternoon sun filtered through the living room windows, casting soft patterns on the worn carpet. An elderly man, eighty years of age, sat on the familiar sofa where he'd spent countless evenings over the decades. Beside him sat his son, forty-five, successful, highly educated, absorbed in reading a book.
A crow landed on the windowsill outside. Its dark feathers gleamed in the sunlight.
The old man turned to his son. "What is this?"
The son glanced up from his book, looked at the window, and replied without much thought. "It is a crow."
He returned to his reading.
A few minutes passed. The crow remained perched on the sill, occasionally tilting its head, observing the world with its bright, intelligent eyes.
The father asked again. "What is this?"
The son looked up, a hint of impatience crossing his features. "Father, I have just now told you. It's a crow."
His tone carried a slight edge. He'd already answered this question. Why was his father asking again?
The old man nodded slowly but said nothing. He continued gazing at the bird with what seemed like genuine curiosity, as if seeing a crow for the first time.
A few more minutes elapsed. The crow hopped along the windowsill, pecked at something invisible, ruffled its feathers.
"What is this?" the father asked a third time.
Now irritation crept unmistakably into the son's voice. "It's a crow, a crow!" he said with obvious impatience, gesturing toward the window as if the answer should be permanently etched in his father's mind by now.
How could his father not remember something so simple? A crow. Just a crow. He'd told him twice already.
The son tried to refocus on his book, but his concentration was broken. His jaw was tight. His father's repetitive questioning felt like an interruption, an annoyance, a sign of something declining that he didn't want to acknowledge.
Barely a minute later, the father asked again. "What is this?"
The son snapped.
"Why do you keep asking me the same question again and again?!" His voice rose, sharp and harsh in the quiet afternoon. "I have told you so many times, IT IS A CROW! Are you not able to understand this?"
The words hung in the air, accusatory and cruel. The old man flinched slightly, as if struck. He said nothing in response. He simply looked down at his hands, folded in his lap, gnarled and spotted with age.
The son immediately felt a pang of guilt but pushed it away, returning aggressively to his book, his face flushed.
After a long, uncomfortable silence, the father slowly stood. His movements were careful, deliberate, the movements of someone whose body no longer responds with the certainty of youth. He walked toward his bedroom, his steps quiet on the old floor.
The son remained on the sofa, his book open but unread. He heard drawers opening, the rustling of papers. Several minutes passed.
His father returned carrying something. An old diary, its cover worn and faded, its pages yellowed with time. The binding was coming apart in places, held together more by habit than structure.
The old man sat back down on the sofa. He opened the diary carefully, turning the fragile pages until he found what he was looking for. Then he held it out to his son.
"Read this," he said quietly.
The son took the diary, curious despite himself. He looked at the date on the page. It was from decades ago, when he was just a small child. The handwriting was his father's, younger and steadier than it was now, but unmistakably the same.
He began to read.
"Today my little son aged three was sitting with me on the sofa, when a crow was sitting on the window. My son asked me 23 times what it was, and I replied to him all 23 times that it was a crow. I hugged him lovingly each time he asked me the same question again and again for 23 times. I did not at all feel irritated. I rather felt affection for my innocent child."
The son's throat tightened. He read the words again, slowly.
Twenty-three times. His father had answered the same question twenty-three times. Not four times. Twenty-three.
And he hadn't shouted. Hadn't shown irritation. Hadn't demanded to know why his three-year-old son couldn't remember such a simple thing.
He had hugged him. Lovingly. Each time.
The son looked up at his father, whose eyes were watching him with a sadness that had nothing to do with anger and everything to do with recognition. Recognition of how the roles had reversed. Recognition of what it meant to grow old and need patience from those who once needed patience from you.
The son's eyes filled with tears.
While the little child had asked him twenty-three times "What is this?", the father had felt no irritation in replying to the same question all twenty-three times. And when today the father asked his son the same question just four times, the son had felt irritated and annoyed.
Just four times.
The weight of that realization settled on the son's chest like a stone.
We spend our childhoods needing endless patience. Asking the same questions over and over. Demanding explanations for things we don't yet understand. Requiring help with tasks we can't yet manage alone.
And our parents, if we're lucky, give us that patience freely. They answer the hundredth "Why?" with the same care they gave the first. They tie our shoes until we learn. They read the same bedtime story until we have it memorized.
They don't count. They don't keep score. They don't shout, "I already told you this! Why can't you remember?"
They simply love us through our learning, our forgetting, our endless questions.
But when our parents grow old, when the roles begin to reverse, we so often forget the patience they showed us. We become impatient with their repetition. Frustrated by their forgetfulness. Irritated when they ask us the same question twice, three times, four times.
We forget that they asked us the same question twenty-three times and felt nothing but affection.
Aging parents can be challenging. Memory fades. Bodies slow. Independence gradually gives way to dependence. It's hard to watch. Hard to accept. Hard to navigate.
But the difficulty we feel doesn't excuse our impatience. It doesn't justify our irritation when they repeat themselves or need help with things they once did effortlessly.
They wiped our noses, changed our diapers, cleaned up our messes, answered our endless questions. They did it without complaint, without keeping track of how many times, without demanding we remember things we simply weren't capable of remembering yet.
They loved us through our helplessness. Through our dependence. Through our need.
Now, when they need us, we owe them the same patience. The same kindness. The same gentle repetition of answers they've forgotten.
We owe them the same love they showed us when we were small and they were strong.
The son closed the diary carefully and handed it back to his father. He didn't trust himself to speak. His throat was too tight, his eyes too blurred with tears.
The old man took the diary and held it gently, as if it contained something precious. Which, of course, it did. It contained proof of a love given freely, without condition, without count.
"I'm sorry, Father," the son finally managed to say, his voice breaking. "I'm so sorry."
The old man reached over and patted his son's hand. "It's a crow," he said softly, with the ghost of a smile.
And then, for the first time that afternoon, the son laughed through his tears. He put his arm around his father's shoulders and pulled him close.
"Yes," he said. "It's a crow. And if you ask me a hundred more times, I'll tell you a hundred more times. With love."
Outside, the crow took flight, disappearing into the afternoon sky, leaving the two men sitting together in the quiet understanding that comes when we finally remember what we owe to those who raised us.
A Message to All of Us
If your parents attain old age, do not repulse them or look at them as a burden. Speak to them with grace and kindness. Be cool, obedient, humble, and patient with them. Be considerate of what they endured for you.
They have cared for you ever since you were a little child. They have always showered their selfless love on you. They crossed all mountains and valleys without seeing the storm and heat to make you a person presentable in society today.
From today, commit to this:
"I want to see my parents happy forever. They have cared for me ever since I was a little child. They have always showered their selfless love on me. I will serve my old parents in the best way. I will say all good and kind words to my dear parents, no matter how they behave."
Because one day, you will be the one asking the questions. And you will hope that someone shows you the same patience your parents once showed you.
Your Turn: How do you practice patience with aging parents or grandparents? What lessons have they taught you about unconditional love? Share your stories in the comments. Sometimes the simplest moments teach us the most profound lessons.