My name is Robert, but everyone calls me Bob. I’m eighty years old now, living in a modest apartment on the north side of Chicago, the skyline a jagged silhouette against the pale morning sun. And I want to tell you a story. A story about friendship, loss, and time. About a man named Tom, my best friend for fifty-seven years, and how his death six months ago reshaped the way I view everything in life.

We met in 1967. I was twenty-three, fresh out of trade school, working at a printing shop near the South Loop. The smell of ink and damp paper hung heavy in the air. The presses roared like thunder, and every now and then, a sheet of paper would whip across the room. That first week was nerve-wracking. I was scared I’d pinch a finger or mess up a job that would get me fired.

Tom started the same week I did. He was a quiet guy with a crooked grin and hands that looked like they’d been working on machines his whole life, even though he was only twenty-four. We were assigned to the same shift. Side by side, we learned the presses, cleaned rollers, stacked paper, folded, printed, folded again. We barely said a word.

Then, at the end of the first day, he asked, “Hey, want to grab a beer?” I shrugged. “Sure.” That single beer, drunk in a dimly lit tavern on Wabash Avenue, was the beginning of fifty-seven years of friendship.

There wasn’t anything dramatic about it. No epic story, no defining adventure. Just two guys who liked each other, who showed up, who shared life. Through marriages and divorces, kids being born, deaths in families, moves across town, and all the mundane stuff life throws at you.

Tom married in 1969. I was his best man, standing beside him in a small church in Lincoln Park. White lilies on the altar, faint smell of incense, the priest speaking softly about love and commitment. I got married in 1971. He was my best man. Our wives, Linda and Carol, became friends too. Friday nights became our ritual. We’d eat dinner together, play cards, talk about nothing and everything. It wasn’t glamorous. It wasn’t remarkable. But it was steady.

And I realize now, that steadiness was rare. Most people never find it. Steady friendship, the kind where you don’t have to impress anyone, the kind where showing up is enough.

Tom and I worked together at that print shop for twelve years. In 1979, the shop closed. I found another printing job downtown. Tom went to work for the city, managing municipal print operations. We didn’t see each other daily anymore, but the Friday dinners remained. Phone calls became our lifeline when news came. Small gestures, but they kept the bond alive.

In 1985, my father died. Tom didn’t speak much at the funeral. He simply stood beside me, hand on my shoulder, silent support steady like a rock. That was enough. When someone you love dies, you don’t need long speeches. You need someone to stand with you.

In 1992, Tom’s son got into trouble. He went to jail for a year. Tom blamed himself. I told him what he had told me years before: sometimes bad things happen and it’s not your fault. His son eventually turned his life around, got married, had kids. Tom beamed with pride at every milestone.

Friendship, I’ve learned, is not just having fun together. Real friendship is showing up when life is hard. Real friendship is sitting in silence because words aren’t necessary. Real friendship is knowing someone so well that you can see their pain even when they smile and say, “I’m fine.”

Tom and I had that friendship. Fifty-seven years of it. We were more than brothers. Better than brothers, sometimes. Because we chose each other, over and over, every day.

In 2008, Carol died of breast cancer. I was sixty-four and suddenly alone. My kids had their lives, busy with families, jobs, obligations. Tom didn’t leave my side. Every day, for the first month, he came by, bringing food, sitting with me, letting me cry. He didn’t try to fix anything or tell me to move on. He let me grieve. That was friendship.

Even after the grief, even when I didn’t want to leave the house, Tom insisted. “Come on, Bob. Let’s get lunch,” he’d say. And I’d go, because I knew he wouldn’t give up on me.

In 2013, Linda died. Tom called me at three in the morning. Heart attack. By the time the ambulance arrived, it was too late. I drove immediately. Found Tom sitting at his kitchen table, staring into nothing. I sat beside him. We didn’t speak. We didn’t need to. We just sat. He knew I understood. I had been exactly where he was, years earlier, when Carol passed.

After Linda’s death, our bond strengthened even further. Tuesday and Thursday breakfasts at the same diner for twenty years, order the same eggs and toast, same coffee, same booth. Talk about nothing and everything—the weather, news, the Cubs. Small talk that mattered more than anything. It gave structure. It gave hope. It gave connection.

As the years passed, Tom and I got older. Our hair thinned, shoulders stooped, hands more brittle. The diner booth became a ritual, a constant in an otherwise changing world. Tuesday and Thursday mornings, we’d walk from our apartments, bags in hand, shoes scuffing on cracked sidewalks, the smell of roasted coffee beans drifting out of the diner windows. We’d sit, order the same breakfast, and talk about trivial things—yet those trivial things were everything.

We began to reminisce more. Trips we took when we were younger, drives to Michigan for a weekend fishing trip, summers in Wisconsin with the kids, nights spent laughing over poorly cooked spaghetti. Mistakes, triumphs, people we loved and lost. Sometimes it was quiet, just the hum of the diner, the clink of cutlery, the distant rumble of the el train outside. Sometimes, we laughed until we cried, our voices carrying across the empty booths.

But then, the cracks started to appear. Tom began forgetting things. At first, small things—a name, a date, a story he’d just told me last week. But then it got worse. He would tell the same story three times in one conversation, each time believing it was new. I noticed the fear in his eyes. He dreaded losing himself, losing the memories that defined him.

His daughter took him to the doctor. Dementia. Early stages, they said. But even early stages can be merciless. He looked at me one morning, hands wrapped around a coffee cup, eyes wide. “Bob,” he said, voice trembling, “I don’t want to forget who I am.”

I put my hand on his. “We deal with what we’re dealt,” I told him, echoing something he once said to me decades ago. He nodded, but I could see the terror lurking beneath the surface.

The last six months of his life were the hardest. He declined faster than expected. Some days, he recognized me immediately and smiled. Some days, he stared blankly, and I was just a stranger in his living room. But I kept showing up. Every Tuesday, every Thursday, like clockwork. Sometimes we talked. Sometimes we didn’t. Sometimes I would read to him from the newspaper, sometimes I would just sit and listen to the ticking clock.

Then came the stroke. It was sudden, violent, and merciless. Two days in the hospital. I was there when it happened. I held his hand, felt the tremors of life slipping away. “It’s okay, Tom,” I whispered, tears stinging my eyes. “It’s okay to let go.” And he did.

I was eighty then. I had lost my parents. I had lost my wife. I had lost friends. But losing Tom was different. He was the last person who remembered the man I had been—the young, nervous kid learning to run a printing press. The young husband full of hope, the father trying his best. The man who had laughed, cried, stumbled, and always got back up. He held all my stories, every triumph and every regret. With him gone, a piece of my history was gone too.

After the funeral, I walked through our old neighborhood alone. The streets seemed narrower without him beside me, the sounds harsher, the city less alive. I thought about all the times I assumed he would be there—ready for breakfast, ready to listen, ready to just exist with me in silence. And now, he wasn’t.

I remembered all the times I could have called but didn’t. All the Fridays I stayed late at work, telling myself, “We’ll catch up next week.” All the times I thought we had forever. We didn’t. Nobody does. Time doesn’t wait, and life doesn’t care about your plans or excuses.

I sit alone now on Tuesday and Thursday mornings, sipping coffee from the same diner mugs we used to use, half-expecting him to walk through the door with that crooked grin. And then I remember. He’s gone. And the house feels emptier than it ever has, even after losing Carol.

People tell me to make new friends, join a club, meet neighbors. But I don’t want new friends. I want the friend who knew me for fifty-seven years. The friend who didn’t need me to explain. The friend who stood by me through life’s storms and sunshine. You can’t replace that. You can only learn to live with the hole it leaves.

Here’s the lesson I’ve learned. Friends, real friends, are rare. The ones who show up when life gets hard, who remember your stories, who listen when you have nothing to say—those friendships are precious. And they require effort. Time. Commitment. Showing up even when it’s inconvenient. Because one day, one of you won’t be here, and all you’ll have are memories and the regret of time wasted.

Tom and I had fifty-seven years of that. Friday dinners, Tuesday breakfasts, long walks, shared laughter, shared grief. And even with all that, it still wasn’t enough. I still wish I had appreciated it more, cherished it more, spent every moment aware of how rare it was.

If you have a friend, a real friend, call them. Visit them. Show up. Don’t assume there will be another Tuesday breakfast or another Friday dinner. You never know how many moments you have left.

I remember the first time Tom and I walked along the Chicago River together. It was a crisp spring morning, 1972. The river sparkled in the sunlight, the water moving with a quiet determination, carrying the city’s reflections with it. We didn’t talk much that day. We just walked, side by side, sharing the comfort of silence. It was one of those small moments, meaningless to anyone else, but it cemented something between us. A friendship that could endure decades.

We were ordinary men living ordinary lives in an extraordinary city. Chicago shaped us, with its sharp winters and sultry summers, its bustling streets, the smell of deep-dish pizza wafting from corner restaurants, the rumble of the el trains weaving through the Loop, and the occasional jazz trumpet floating out of a club on Wabash Avenue. Every alley, every corner, every diner had a story we’d tell each other over and over. And even when the city changed—old factories closing, new skyscrapers rising—our friendship remained constant.

Tom loved baseball, especially the Cubs. Every summer, we’d sit in Wrigley Field, bleachers worn smooth from generations of fans, shouting at the umpire, cheering when the ball soared into the ivy, arguing over plays with strangers who became friends for the day. “Bob,” he’d say, “it’s not about winning or losing. It’s about being here, seeing the game, feeling alive.” And he was right. Every moment with him, even watching a game, felt alive.

We talked about everything and nothing. Politics, sports, the weather, memories of family gatherings, lost loves, childhood adventures. We laughed at our own mistakes and marveled at the mistakes of others. Sometimes the conversation turned serious. He’d tell me about fears he couldn’t share with his family, about regrets that kept him awake. I’d do the same. We trusted each other with our deepest selves.

There was one summer evening, 1983, when we went fishing at Lake Michigan. Not for the fish, really—we weren’t skilled anglers—but for the peace of sitting on the shore, lines in the water, the sun setting behind the skyline. Tom brought a small cooler, sandwiches wrapped in wax paper, two cans of soda. We ate in silence, watched the waves lap the shore. “Bob,” he said finally, “I don’t know what I’d do without these little moments with you.” And I said, “Me neither, Tom.” That was the kind of man he was—quietly aware, appreciating the simple joys.

Even in our routines, there was adventure. Tuesday and Thursday breakfasts were sacred. The same diner, same booth, same coffee. But sometimes we’d deviate—drive to Oak Park for a walk, explore a bookstore we’d never been to, or sit in a park and feed pigeons, laughing at how ridiculous we looked. Life wasn’t about grand gestures; it was about showing up, being present, noticing the small things, and sharing them with someone who truly cared.

When Carol passed, it was Tom who held me up. I remember sitting on the couch, shivering from grief, the sunlight slicing through the blinds in thin lines. He didn’t say much. He just sat beside me, letting the silence do the work that words couldn’t. I cried, and he sat there. Hours passed. I felt like I was sinking, but with him there, I floated just enough to keep breathing.

Linda’s death years later reversed the roles. I found myself doing the same for him. Sitting at the kitchen table, holding his hand, the early morning sun warming the hardwood floor, letting him speak when he needed, letting him sit in silence when words failed. We had traded roles seamlessly over decades, each of us stepping in when the other needed it most. That’s what true friendship is—mutual care, unspoken understanding, loyalty without condition.

We reminisced often about our youth. Remembering the smell of ink in the print shop, the thrill of finishing a huge print job, or the relief after a hard day. We laughed at old crushes, mistakes in high school dances, and the awkwardness of early dating. We remembered names, dates, and minor incidents that seemed unimportant at the time but became sacred memories shared only between us. These stories, sometimes repetitive, sometimes mundane, were our threads connecting us to our younger selves.

The city itself became a character in our friendship. The smell of Chicago streets in winter, exhaust and hot pretzels mingling in the air. The summer festivals along Navy Pier, with music and laughter spilling across the lakefront. The snowfalls that made our walks treacherous, forcing us to help each other along cracked sidewalks. Every memory tied us not just to each other but to the place that had raised us, challenged us, and given us our lives.

Even when dementia began to cloud Tom’s mind, some memories remained. He’d occasionally recall details from decades prior with startling clarity, like a photograph emerging from a fog. “Remember that night we drove to Michigan?” he’d ask. “You got the map upside down and we ended up lost for hours?” I’d laugh and nod, and for a moment, the illness faded, and it was just Tom and me, as we’d always been.

The last six months with Tom were some of the hardest I’ve ever experienced. Watching someone you’ve known for more than half a century slowly fade away is a lesson in patience, in grief, in the fragility of life itself. At first, it was small things. Forgetting where he put his glasses. Misplacing the keys to his old Chevy. Calling me by someone else’s name once or twice.

But soon, the changes became more apparent. He’d ask the same question three times in ten minutes. He’d start telling a story, pause, forget what he was saying, and then start again. And there were days he didn’t know me at all. That hurt, of course—it tore at my heart—but I never let it show. I knew that showing up mattered more than anything else. I had to be the constant. The friend who was always there, no matter what.

We kept our routine as best we could. Tuesday and Thursday mornings, I’d show up at his apartment, knock lightly on the door, and wait for him to answer. Sometimes he’d greet me with a smile, other times he’d stare blankly, unsure of who I was. And every time, I’d just say, “Hey, it’s me, Bob. Let’s get some breakfast.” And we’d go.

Breakfast was sacred. The diner was still the same, a place that had become a ritual over decades. Same booth, same waitress who’d watched us age over the years, same coffee poured strong and black, just the way Tom liked it. I’d talk, he’d listen—or at least nod—and sometimes, if the day was good, he’d remember a story from years ago. A joke we told in 1975, a baseball game at Wrigley, a fishing trip at Lake Michigan. Those moments were precious.

I learned to celebrate the small victories. The day he remembered my name. The day he laughed at an old joke. The day he asked about Carol. Each moment was a reminder that the man I loved as a friend was still there, somewhere beneath the fog of dementia.

There were hard moments too. Times when he’d get frustrated, agitated, or sad. Times when he’d cry and I couldn’t fix it. I couldn’t make the memories come back. I couldn’t make the world right again. All I could do was sit with him, hold his hand, and let him feel whatever he needed to feel. And sometimes, that was enough.

Tom had always been selfless, and even in his final months, he worried about me. “Bob, don’t get tired of me,” he’d say. “I don’t want to be a burden.” I’d laugh softly and tell him, “Tom, you could never be a burden. I’m here because I want to be. Always.” And I meant it. That’s what friendship is. Showing up, not out of obligation, but out of love.

The night Tom had his stroke, I was there. He called me just before midnight, telling me he didn’t feel right. I rushed over. By the time the ambulance arrived, his speech was slurred, his right side weakened. I held his hand in the emergency room, whispered stories about our youth, reminded him of the fishing trips, the Cubs games, the quiet walks along the river. And then, when the doctors said he had to be stabilized and I couldn’t go into surgery with him, I waited. Sat in that sterile hospital room for two days, never leaving, keeping my vigil.

When Tom passed, I held his hand as he took his last breath. I whispered, “It’s okay, Tom. You can rest now. I’ll be alright.” And he was. Gone, but at peace.

Afterward, the house was silent in a way I had never known. The Tuesday and Thursday mornings felt empty. The diner was quieter. My own home felt hollow. And I realized something important: Tom wasn’t just a friend. He was a keeper of my memories, a witness to my life, a brother in all but blood. With him gone, I was suddenly aware of all the shared moments that would never happen again. All the conversations left unsaid, the jokes we would no longer repeat, the shared silences that were somehow comforting.

I thought about all the times I could have called him but didn’t. All the Fridays when I chose to stay home, or the nights I was too tired to drop by, or the moments I didn’t show up because I assumed there would always be a “next time.” There wasn’t. And that’s the lesson I want to pass on.

Friendship is like a muscle. You have to exercise it. You have to put in effort, time, and love. You have to show up. And you can’t take for granted the people who make your life richer simply by being in it. Because one day, they won’t be there, and all you’ll have left are memories and regrets.

I think about Tom every single day. I picture him sitting across from me at the diner, pointing at a Cubs score, telling a story he’s told me a dozen times but still finding a way to make me laugh. I remember our quiet walks along the Chicago River, the smell of the city after a summer rain, the cold winters when we trudged through snow-covered sidewalks. I remember the way he always remembered my birthday, my wife’s favorite flowers, the way he knew when I needed a laugh, a nod, a presence without words.

And I try to live up to that. I try to honor him by being present for others, by valuing friendship, by remembering that people are irreplaceable. I call my remaining friends more often. I ask about their days. I make the effort. Because I’ve learned that the time we have is finite, and the moments we waste assuming there will always be more are moments we can never recover.

Tom taught me that friendship isn’t about convenience or entertainment. It’s about showing up when it’s hard, listening when it’s unnecessary, standing beside someone even when nothing can be fixed. And now that he’s gone, I carry that lesson with me, hoping to be as good a friend to others as he was to me.

After Tom passed, the days felt longer, emptier. The city noises, the clatter of the diner, even the wind off Lake Michigan—they all seemed quieter somehow. But life doesn’t stop. My kids call, check in. Neighbors wave. Friends still try to include me. But the space Tom filled? That’s irreplaceable. And I know now that it never will be.

I think back to the first day we met in that printing shop in 1967. Two nervous young men, fumbling with ink and machines, barely speaking, sharing nothing but a table and a shift. If I had known then that our friendship would last fifty-seven years, that it would shape my life in ways I couldn’t imagine, I would have appreciated it more from the very start.

I’ve learned a lot from losing Tom. I’ve learned that friendship is a living, breathing thing. It needs attention. It needs care. You can’t let it grow only when it’s convenient. You can’t wait for the “right time” to call, visit, or listen. The right time is now. Always. Because there may not be a next time.

I’ve learned that grief isn’t just sadness. It’s also reflection. It’s a reminder of the depth of love, loyalty, and connection we can experience in our lives. And sometimes, it’s the last chance to fully understand what someone meant to you.

I’ve learned to treasure the little things: the way he’d laugh at a bad joke, the way he always poured cream into his coffee first, the way he remembered stories from decades ago and told them with that same twinkle in his eyes. Those small details are what made him Tom. And those small details are what I carry with me now.

I’ve learned to reach out more. To not wait for invitations or milestones. To call my friends, to meet them for coffee, to listen without judgment, to sit in silence when words aren’t enough. Because that’s what Tom gave me. Presence. Unconditional presence. And that’s a gift I want to pass on.

Sometimes, when the evenings are quiet and the city sleeps, I still imagine him at the diner, sitting in our booth, stirring his coffee, telling a story he’s told me a hundred times but somehow I laugh every single time. And I smile, because even though he’s gone, that memory, that presence, is still with me.

And that’s the message I want you to take away. Life is short. People leave. Friends leave. Parents, spouses, children, even ourselves—we don’t know how much time we have. So show up. Love fiercely. Listen deeply. Be present in the mundane, in the celebrations, in the grief. Be there for the people who matter, because one day, there won’t be another chance.

I miss Tom every single day. I miss our breakfasts, our walks, our stories, our shared laughter, our silences. I miss the comfort of knowing that someone had been with me through every twist and turn of life, every triumph, every failure, every ordinary Tuesday and Thursday morning. But I am grateful. Grateful for fifty-seven years of friendship, for every shared moment, for the lessons he taught me, for the man he helped me become.

So if you have someone like Tom in your life, don’t wait. Call them. Visit them. Sit with them. Tell them you care. Show them, in every small way you can, that you value them. Because the time you have together is finite. The chance to be present, to make memories, to share your life, will not wait forever.

And if you don’t have someone like that in your life right now, reach out. Be the friend you wish you had. Be the presence, the anchor, the one who shows up, who listens, who stays. You might be the person who changes someone’s life the way Tom changed mine.

In the end, life isn’t measured by the years you’ve lived, the money you’ve earned, or the things you’ve acquired. Life is measured by the relationships you nurture, the love you give, the loyalty you show, and the memories you create with the people who matter most. That is the legacy of friendship. That is the gift Tom left me. That is the lesson I hope you carry forward.

So go. Pick up the phone. Send that message. Make that plan. Sit down for that coffee. Walk, talk, laugh, cry. Be there for someone today. Because one day, it will be too late. And all you’ll have left are the memories—and the deep, enduring gratitude for the time you did have.

Tom may be gone, but he taught me more about life than anyone else ever could. And through remembering him, through honoring him, I continue to learn. I continue to grow. I continue to show up. And I continue to live a life shaped by the love and loyalty of a friend who truly mattered.