Small Mercy

The woman had calloused hands,

the kind that know work and understand

pain. She turned to the stranger

who was crying, and didn't treat them like danger,

just said something true, something kind,

and something shifted in the stranger's mind—

a smile came through.

Actual smile.

The fluorescent light

was doing that thing—

turning everything gray, taking flight

from the window into something

like a mirror, doubling everything,

but the woman's hands were right,

specific, worn, real.

I watched her hand land

on the stranger's shoulder,

light and sure, and older

than pain. Like she'd been

through her own falling apart

and knew how to start

the healing.

The bus turned left.

The light hit differently.

I was sitting three rows back, bereft

of answers, needing to see

someone's kindness that wasn't

performed, that was

real and landed like a reason to believe.

The stranger got off at Madison.

The woman stayed on.

I never saw them again.

But the day was different then.

The day held something.

The day held a reason to begin again.