I met a man earlier today,

by a bus stop, quiet, and so very grey.

He wore the weight of something deep,

the kind of sorrow that just doesn’t sleep.

His eyes were distant, dim, and worn,

as though hope from him had long been torn.

So I asked him gently, “What’s the matter, my friend?”

and he let his long held silence end.

He spoke of a wife unwell at home,

of aching bones and ills of his own.

Of days that dragged and nights that pressed,

of life that hadn’t treated him best.

I listened closely, I let him speak,

heard the strength inside him, so not weak

Then brightly said, “Don’t forget your wins,

the quiet kind, where hope begins.”

He looked confused, “What could they be?”

So I said, “please let me help you see,

you are breathing, you are standing still,

and you are moving by your own strong will.”

At this he laughed, so full, so wide,

like something heavy had lifted deep inside.

A sudden joy, a bright release,

a moment of unexpected peace.

And when at last his laughter slowed,

his gratitude began to show.“Thank you,” he said, “your words helped me not so much by what you said but more for seeing me, thereby reminding me I am not yet dead.