At eighty, I understand grandfather’s words: “The harshest punishment is living when all you’ve loved are gone.”

One by one, father left, mother left, wife left. Friends departed in succession. I remain—solitary witness to countless deaths.

Each departure takes a piece. Mother’s death took childhood memories. Friend’s death took youth stories. Wife’s death took love poems.

Those who knew my past are gone. Those I laughed with are silent. Those I lived for now receive only prayers.

Cruelest part: no new memories can be shared. Every joyful moment reminds—no one to share it with.

Yet this experience teaches invaluable lessons. Love is temporary, but love’s memory is eternal. People leave, but their given love remains.

Perhaps my duty now is preserving their stories. Their laughter, tears, dreams—keeping these alive.

Slowly learning: being alone and being lonely aren’t the same.