Please note: this piece contains content that some readers may find upsetting.
They never exchanged soft words.
As they never learned how to express their feelings.
Not when they were only boys in overalls, knees deep in grease, grafting all those back-punishing hours,
while serving their time.
Pushing each other to make it through.
Not when they bought houses on opposite ends of the same scheme.
Regular visits for tea were all that was needed.
Not when they held each other’s newborns like something sacred and breakable.
A handshake would do.
Not during times of grief.
When each set of parents died, one by one,
quiet was the way they clapped the other’s back.
Yet they met every Saturday.
Always.
After the football,
after the shouting across the field or at the telly—
which meant nothing,
and everything.
The dog knew the route by heart.
The bench recognized their weight.
Every second Saturday, I’d join them and admire their unwavering bond.
The childish banter and the ease of conversation.
Wishing I’d form a connection to last as long.
Every week, it was the same thing.
He brought tuna sandwiches—
since he was young, it was his favourite.
Now it was packed by a wife who read the labels, watched the salt, and worried about his heart.
The other brought meat, eggs, cheese — a different kind every week, as if variety was rebellion.
They’d swap halves.
A quiet ritual.
No words for affection,
this was their shared thing.
Because in their actions, they proved their loyalty.
In showing up, they provided strength.
In silence, they heard all the other needed to say.
In each other’s company, they found comfort.
And that was love.
Time passed the way it does — slow, then sudden.
Illness crept in.
Gentle at first, before it took hold.
His friend walked slower than usual, taking more breaks on their journey.
All too soon, the tradition faded.
And one Saturday, his friend was gone.
Their lives once parallel now marked by the distance grief had carved.
I couldn’t give him back what was taken.
But I could make sure he didn’t walk their path alone.
So it’s the same time every Saturday.
The same walk, same bench.
I bring the tuna.
He still brings the surprise.
We sit, swap halves,
and in that silent offering,
I feel the resonance of a lifetime — of history,
of the kind of love men like them were never taught to name,
but carried anyway,
in sandwiches,
with silence,
and showing up.
In their routine and now in memory.
We say nothing of what was lost, only share what remains.
If you've been affected by this piece, please see our support page(this link will open in a new window) for help and advice.