Angels in “The Swamp”

I stood anxiously with the others. We all waited, silently, many staring down at bright little screens, to board the long elevator down to the metro. None of us looked at each other, and the man with the sign didn’t look at us either. He didn’t call out, forcing us to acknowledge his existence, pushing us to feel the discomfort of witnessing suffering. He simply sat in his wheelchair outside the elevator with a smile on his face and a cardboard sign in his lap—something about an injury, something about needing help, something about God bless you.

We all boarded the elevator, packed like sardines, yet somehow still unaware of each other’s pulses. I let out a deep breath, and I tried to ignore the twinge in my chest thinking about the man with the sign. I thought about the man from five years ago who didn’t have a sign…