Kindness When Its Hard

Rain on the window. Not the kind that sings. The kind that sighs. I was in the nursing home’s quiet corner, Tuesday afternoon. Hands shaky from the arthritis, trying to steady my coffee cup. The tremor had been worse since the relapse last month—my own fault, old habit of thinking I could outrun the silence. A young nurse, Maya, came in with a chart. Saw me fumbling. Didn’t ask if I was okay. Just took the cup, held it steady with her own hands while I gripped the saucer. Her fingers were warm, calm. Not pity. Just… presence. “Here,” she said. “Let me.” She didn’t say ''I know you’re struggling''. Didn’t say ''It’s okay''. Just held the cup. And for three breaths, the shaking stopped. Not because I stopped shaking, but because someone else was holding the weight. I didn’t say much. Just nodded. She smiled, like it was nothing. Left the cup on the table, the steam rising in the quiet. That’s what I remember now. Not the big speeches about recovery. Not the drum solos that got me high. But that small, steady hand holding a cup. You learn to play the rest notes too. The spaces between the beats. The moments when you’re not playing at all, just letting the silence hold you. That’s where kindness lives. Not in the loud, grand gestures. In the quiet, when you’re broken and someone still chooses to steady your cup. I’ve spent half my life chasing the next solo. Now I know the real music is in the rest. Here’s what I know after 78 years: The hardest kindness isn’t given when things are easy. It’s given when you’re falling apart, and someone just… holds the cup. ''— [[accept:User:Roger_Jackson|Roger Jackson]], still playing''