Dear Man with the Matches,
Do you remember seeing a gaggle of college kids making their way down the street late one night? We were trying in vain to find a lighter, stepping over empty beer cans to peer through the glass doors of a closed convenience store, wishing it to be open. No one had a lighter waiting for them in the warmth of their home. Mine had died a few hours earlier, sending only weak sparks into the night air as I willed it to light a flame.
Because of your kindness, the flames burned bright from the golden two and one placed atop her cupcakes.
Out of nowhere, you seemed to appear on the brick ledge outside of the store. You stopped us in our tracks, uncurling yourself from your hunched seated position, raising your hand to offer us a pack of matches. You had already used some, there were only about 4 left, so there is no doubt you planned to use the rest. Yet, you chose to give them to a group of strangers. We kept those matches safe, carrying them all the way back home. They are the reason I could light my best friend’s 21st birthday candles that night. Because of your kindness, the flames burned bright from the golden two and one placed atop her cupcakes. We sang the loving melody of the birthday song, celebrating another trip around the sun.
Dear Coffee Shop Barista,
Do you remember giving free coffee to two random girls one Sunday afternoon? We had decided to try your shop on a whim, seeking solace in a warm beverage to aid us in our studies. You watched us spend a good few minutes searching the menu for the perfect drink, our thoughts occasionally interrupted by another to-do list item coming to haunt our minds. We eventually gave you our orders, bringing our cards out to pay. Without saying much, you waved your hand, gesturing for us to keep our money to ourselves. Gracious thank-yous gushed out of our mouths as you uttered a sweet “you’re welcome.”
Despite the lingering chill of early spring, the world seemed a little less cold when I left your coffee shop.
I wonder what you were thinking; if you could sense our school-related stress as you watched us study the menu, if you could feel our confusion and excitement as you turned to prepare our drinks. You served our orders in pretty blue coffee mugs, gently handing them over the counter. I wonder if you could see my heart melting a little bit, if you could see the warmth spreading through my body as I took the first sip of my latte. The swirl in my mind began to settle for a moment as I focused on the steaming drink in my hands. Despite the lingering chill of early spring, the world seemed a little less cold when I left your coffee shop.
Dear Someone Else’s Mom,
You probably remember going to New York Pride with a shirt that said “Free Mom Hugs,” but I’m sure it is impossible to remember all the strangers you met that day. As you walked down the busy street, you saw three teenagers standing by a street corner. One of us had a pride flag wrapped around our shoulders. One of us was holding a grocery bag full of snacks to carry with us throughout the day. One of us had two mini pride flags sticking out of their jeans pocket, an attempt to free their hands to google maps how to get to the next location. You didn’t see that our pride was being diluted by anxiety, that our love was tainted by fear of unacceptance.
When you let go, you left a feeling of hope, as if these little acts were a sign of my own mother finding her way to acceptance.
Or maybe you did. Maybe that’s why you picked us out of the crowd, explaining that you were giving out hugs to any that wanted one, knowing that not everyone’s parents supported their identity. You wrapped your arms around us, one after the other. I’ve never had such a warm embrace from someone I'd just met. I had been thinking about my own mother all day, about the poorly masked look of disapproval on her face when I told her I was going to Pride. Yet, in your arms, my eyes began to well as I remembered how she woke up early to make sure I had a safe trip, how she complimented my outfit as I walked out the door. When you let go, you left a feeling of hope, as if these little acts were a sign of my own mother finding her way to acceptance.
Dear Stranger,
I do not know you, and there is no way of knowing what kind of person you are. What did you do to deserve my pack of matches, a free latte in a pretty blue cup, my warm embrace? Who knows. Maybe it was nothing. Truly, it does not matter to me. You do not have to do anything in particular to deserve a small act of kindness. You are human. Your heart deserves to be filled with joy. Maybe I was feeling especially generous that day, or maybe I just wanted to spread a bit of kindness between the two of us, to light a small flame of happiness in both our lives that would keep our souls burning.
