The man who works the security desk at my office.
You’re the last man I see as my daily commute concludes and my workday begins.
You’re a pleasant man, always with a warm smile and a good morning over the almost five years I’ve worked here. Some people engage you in small talk, and some ignore you, wrapped up in their Blackberrys and thoughts. I’m somewhere in the middle: always a good morning, occasionally a little baseball talk in the post-season–you like the Yankees–but not typically conversation. I was pretty sure I knew your name before we got the memo last week.
The memo.
The memo was just awful. It mentioned the terrible tragedy you suffered; multiple family members killed down south. Your children, murdered. I asked another front-desk man how you were faring the next day, and the man shook his head for a long, long time.
Late last week, someone posted a flyer about a memorial service, up in Harlem, for your family members.
I saw you back at work for the first time today. You had the smile on, but your eyes gave you away. I stopped and shook your hand, and tried to express my condolences in some meaningful way. You were gracious and told me you were taking it one day at a time. I nodded and gave a slight smile and headed over to the elevators, feeling I hadn’t said or done enough, but unsure as to what else could be said or done.
I hope you find peace. I thank you for putting on your suit and your smile and coming back to work, and for reminding me–us–that the things we complain about, the annoying train passengers and flight delays and fare hikes, are downright silly when someone else is dealing with a tragedy as deep and unthinkable as the one you’re working through.
I didn’t say enough to your face, and I’m not saying enough in this letter. There is no enough in the face of what you’re going through. I barely know you but I feel deeply for you. One day at a time, you said. I hope tomorrow is a tiny bit better than today, and so on.
Respectfully,
Trainjotting