The Most Important Thing

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What is the most important thing in a person’s life😒?

Everything is important, but nothing is indispensable. Because whatever you once thought was most important, one day you will lose it.

When I was three🙁, I held tightly to the lollipop🍭 in my hand, strongly believing that nothing was more important than it.

When I was five, I spent an entire afternoon catching that one dragonfly. At that moment, it seemed like the most important thing in the world.

When I was seven, I looked with admiration and a touch of envy at the certificate of merit that my deskmate was holding, and I thought perhaps that was what mattered most💪.

At nine, Lying under the shade of a tree, rays of sunlight danced on my face. A lazy summer holiday was everything to me😪.

At 13, I realized that an admission notice from a top high school🧑‍🎓💯 meant a great deal to my life.

When I was 16, I sat in the classroom, lost in thought, as a gentle breeze drifted through. Staring at the ponytail of the girl sitting in front♥️, I suddenly felt that going on like this forever wouldn’t be so bad👩‍❤️‍💋‍👨.

When I was 18, I studied day and night, praying to every god and buddha out there, just for a university acceptance letter📝.

At 22, I left campus and stepped, still naive, into the real world. Now, finding a job became the most important thing😔.

At 24, I stood at my wedding, looking at the hall filled with guests and at my bride. She, of course, was not the girl from when I was 16. I felt a tinge of regret, but in that moment, she became the most important person in my life.

At 25, out with the boys, we knocked back drinks, talked big, and joked around. Too young to know better, I believed that keeping up appearances was what counted most.

At 26, I waited anxiously outside the delivery room. A cry broke the silence, and I knew something more important had arrived.

At 33, overwhelmed by mortgage and car loan payments, I was convinced that money was everything.

When I was 38, my father, who had always been strong-willed, began asking for my opinion. And in that moment, it hit me that he was finally old. The same year, my mother stopped scolding me. Instead, she fussed over me patiently, even a little cautiously. And I understood that she, too, was growing old.

Still at 38, my son no longer clung to me. He had his own friends and his own life. And I knew that from that point on, and for the rest of his life, he would only keep drifting further away. That year, it dawned on me that perhaps time was the most important thing in this world.

At 40, staring at the messy medical report, it occurred to me that I had never, not once, thought of myself as important.

At 45, half a lifetime gone in a fog, I sat at my desk, beer belly protruding, slacking off, when I thought back to the dreams of my youth. And never had dreams seemed so important.

At 50, I watched my son marry a wonderful young woman. Squinting at him up on the stage, I wondered whether she was the girl he’d fallen in love with at 16. Still, I felt that my son’s happiness mattered more than my own.

When I was 55, I puffed and panted chasing after my grandson, afraid he might fall. In that moment, I had no grand ambitions for him. His safety and happiness were all that mattered.

At 60, I buried my parents side by side. By then, age had taught me to make peace with things. I didn’t cry. In that moment, I just felt that my father’s scoldings and my mother’s fussings were important beyond compare.

When I was 70, my wife passed away. My son and daughter-in-law had successful careers, and my grandson was away at university. With nothing to do, I roamed the streets. And for reasons unclear to me, I felt that my wife meant far more to me than the old ladies dancing in the public square.

At 75, in the hospital, the doctor asked me to step out and leave my son in the room. I knew that my time was running out. While I had the chance, I called my grandson.

I wanted to tell him, “If you ever fall in love with a girl at 16, hold on to her, just as tightly as you held that lollipop when you were three.” But after thinking it over, I felt it might be a little inappropriate for an old man to say that. So when he answered, I simply said, “Grandpa misses you. Come see me when you have time.”

The doctor reassured me that the problem wasn’t major. I smiled and told him, “There are no major problems in life. The most important thing is to get through the day.

At 76, my grandson came back to see me. It made me a little uneasy letting him see me on my deathbed. My son and daughter-in-law stood by my side, crying uncontrollably. I no longer had the energy to think about what was most important.

I only thought about keeping the funeral arrangements simple. My son and daughter-in-law were no longer young themselves. Their bodies couldn’t take much anymore.

My grandson had just started working and taking time off wasn’t easy. I didn’t want him to leave a bad impression on his boss.

As I was thinking this, a breeze came from somewhere blurring my vision.

When I opened my eyes, my father and mother were there, holding hands, wearing the smiles I knew so well. They were young again. They opened their arms, gesturing for me to come and hug them. I had missed them so much. Without hesitation, I jumped out of the bed and ran toward them.

As I ran, I became 60 again, then 50, then 40, then 30, until I was once more a three-year-old child.

Finally, they could lift me up. I nodded to them, and they smiled and nodded back before turning to lead me away. I looked back one last time at my son, my daughter-in-law, and my grandson. They were holding the 76-year-old me sobbing. I was reluctant to leave them, but it was all right. I knew they would be fine.

So, what is the most important thing?

Everything is important, but nothing is indispensable. Because whatever you once thought was most important, one day you will lose it.

Regret is always part of life.