The Best Days I Haven’t Met Yet

At seventy-five, I move through my days like one walking in soft evening light—slow, grateful, touched by shadows that all carry memories.

The years behind me glow like quiet lanterns on a calm river, each holding a face, a tear, a smile I once knew.

Yet inside me, a small flame—stubborn as a star that refuses to go out—keeps whispering that the river still has colours I haven’t seen.

Hope rises in me like dawn lifting a sleepy hill, gentle but sure, telling me new joys are waiting just beyond my sight.

I may be an old man, but my spirit still leans forward like a traveller who hears distant music.

And with a faith soft as a prayer, I believe this truth: some of the best moments of my life are still on their way.