Dear Whoever You Were on the 42 bus that morning,
You were maybe eight. Your shoes didn't match. You looked me dead in the eye and said, "Why are you crying?"
I wasn't sobbing. Just a leak. The kind where you cry so quietly even you forget until the salt hits your lip.
I'd come from the nursing home. My grandmother didn't know me. She was sorting her pincushion — the little red tomato with the strawberry on the string. She didn't sew anymore. But she picked at those stitches like they held something she was trying to find.
You waited for my answer. No adult does that. Not the nurses. Not my kids. Not even the organ bench, where I've played "Amazing Grace" seven times in ten days.
I said, "I'm sad because I miss someone who's still here." You nodded. Like that made perfect sense. Then you went back to your window.
I think about you some nights, after my shift at the mill, when I'm walking home along the river. You didn't fix anything. But you asked. And that was the first time all week someone saw the leak.
So thank you. For the question. For the nod. For seeing me on the bus before I disappeared into the dark.