One Broken Soul
Soldiers Field was packed with people, but I noticed him right away. He pushed his bike walking slowly toward where our local memorial service would be. He looked different. He looked like a broken man. I wondered if he used drug or consumed alcohol. As broken as he was, how would he comfort himself?
When the service started, I turned around and was surprised to see him standing right behind me. I tried to have an eye contact with him, but he didn’t look my way. Soon after the service was started, I heard him sobbing. I wanted to reach out to hold his hands, but I didn’t know what he would think. I didn’t know what my husband would say.
He cried louder and louder. Someone should give him a hug, I thought. Looking around, I saw people act as if they didn’t hear a thing. “Please, someone do something,” I begged in my mind and waited.
He apparently was somewhat embarrassed with his uncontrollable emotion. Before the service ended, he quietly left. I watched him walking away, having an urge to go after him, but I couldn’t move.
I hated being an introvert that day.
Written in response to WordPress’ daily prompt: Break the Silence