The Graveyard Helper

The graveyard helper passes from moment to moment.

Maybe he ran away from home.

Maybe he really believed in the “small acts of kindness” lesson back in 1st grade.

Maybe he went through something so sad he changed.

He helps so many people, but not one knows his story.

Maybe he was a genius, a kind-hearted soul, the epitome of grace.

All they know is that he talks with grieving families and puts stones in the soil.

He sees a struggling student doing her homework next to the father he buried. He offers a helping hand with history and she later passes the test with flying colors.

He always gives his half of the sandwich to the old people on the street corner.

If he can’t help them with words or kind gestures, he’ll just sit.

As they wait, all silent grey eyes seeing into a sadder world, he takes a chair across from them and just stays there.

But no one speaks of him and nobody knows other people know him too.

He’s a random, friendly face in a sea of memories.

Most people don’t remember him, but a handful think back on the stranger in a button-up shirt that gave them his shopping bag when they ran out.

He tries to help people so that their face won’t be the next one he sees at work.

I wish I could tell him that I remember him, that his story needs to be told, that he helped me then and is, in his own way, helping me still.

He gives me faith in people.

I wonder where he is now.