From the time I was a tyke until my early teens, my family frequented a city park that sat on a hill overlooking the southeast region of the city.  The hill was  a year round source of entertainment – in winter months we would sled down it’s slopes, and in the summer we would glide down on large sheets of cardboard scavenged from the dumpsters behind Safeway.

I would tag along with my mom to the malls on Saturday mornings unless my dad had a fishing trip or other excursion planned.  It wasn’t that I enjoyed shopping so much, it was more about the perks that came along with shopping. 

For one, we were away from home the entire day, which meant eating out at the fast food joint of my choice.  In addition to lunch for being a ‘good boy’ while mom tried on what seemed like a million articles of clothing, I earned treats which could take many forms – anything from sweets at Dairy Queen to an after shopping activity like bowling, putt-putt, skating, a movie, or games at the arcade. 

On one such Saturday, I chose to go cardboarding at the park after lunch.  We went and got our boxes – the best ones were the toilet paper or paper towel boxes because they were quite large – and drove to the park.  On that particular day we couldn’t find a close parking space near our favorite sliding spot, so we parked on the opposite side and had to walk. 

We locked up the car and set off, lugging our cardboards.  About halfway to our destination sat a couple of wooden park benches.   At first I didn’t notice the lone woman sitting on one of them, but the closer we got, the harder it became not to notice her.  She had a hanky or some tissue which she was dabbing at her eyes and nose as her shoulders shook.  The closer we got, the louder her sobs became, and I began to feel awkwardly uncomfortable.  I’m not sure if my discomfort was at the thought of walking past her as she sat in distress, or if I was embarrassed for her because I was seeing her cry. 

The former didn’t matter because as soon as my mom realized the woman was crying, she quickened her pace and went to her aid.  I, on the other hand, slowed my pace and crept to the bench beside them.  I heard my mom ask her what was wrong.  The woman leaned into my mom and mumbled something I couldn’t understand and then the dam burst, as she began crying uncontrollably.  My mom wrapped an arm around her and commenced to consoling the woman in the motherly manner that mom’s do.  Over the lady’s shoulder, she looked at me and said, “Go play,” pointing with her free hand at a spot a few feet behind me.

All I wanted to do was get away, so I grabbed my cardboard and retreated, never contemplating how I was to ‘play’ with a piece of cardboard on flat land.  I just wanted to get away from the embarrassment. 

Some time later, mom came and said, “Let’s go.”  I was dejected.  I assumed she meant we were going home, but she turned and headed towards our sliding spot.  Enthused, I snatched up my cardboard and ran after her.  When I caught up, I asked, “What happened to that lady?”

“She went home.”

“No, I mean, why was she crying?”

“She was sad.”

“Did you know her?”

“No.”

“Then why did you help her?”

“Because people are supposed to help each other, that’s why.  It doesn’t matter that I didn’t know her,” then she stopped.  “What if I fell down right now and broke my leg and,” looking around, “that man, right there, came and lifted me and carried me to the hospital.  How would you feel?”

“I’d be… happy,” I said as we continued on.

“So, don’t you think that lady’s little boy would be happy that I helped his mom?”

“I think so,” I said, smiling up at her.

As we reached our spot she said, “Of course, he would.  Now, who is going first?!”

That wouldn’t be the last time I witnessed my mom help a complete stranger.  In fact, sometimes I found myself looking around for distressed individuals – because I saw what helping others did for my mom.  That’s when I realized something I don’t think she ever did – not because she wasn’t capable, but because nothing she ever did was about her – she was healing by helping others.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR. Reshi Yenot is the pen name for a writer who lives on Death Row in Florida. He can be contacted at:
Reshi Yenot
P.O. Box 70092
Henrico, VA 23255

©Reshi Yenot