The apprentice he keeps meaning to train

A locksmith in Ras Al Khaimah has been meaning to train his nephew for four years.

Every day there is a reason not to. A family locked out of their flat. A shop owner with a broken shutter before opening time. A car with the keys inside it and a child waiting in the heat. Each call is real, and each one is in a hurry.

The odd thing is that many of the urgent calls would be fine with a pause. A shutter that waits half an hour does not get worse. A customer given a calm time to expect him is usually happier than one who got a rushed arrival and a rushed job. Urgency shouts, but a surprising amount of it can cool for a while without harm.

The nephew cannot. Every year he is not taught, he drifts a little further toward other work. The day the locksmith finally has a quiet month, the boy will have a job somewhere else, and the shop will close when its owner stops working.

Nobody decides that. There is no morning when the locksmith chooses to let the trade end with him. It simply happens on all the days he was busy with something louder.

That is how most people settle. Rarely by deciding to aim lower. More often by giving their attention to whatever rang most recently, and letting the important thing sit, in the belief that it will get easier later or quietly resolve itself.

It will not. The things that matter most do not grow easier with time, and they do not wait.

Better is still possible today. It just has to be chosen over the phone.