He was a young guy.
Bet you I was twenty years older than him.
We were from different backgrounds, too.
I could tell.
For one thing, he had a mullet—seriously.
Thick Alabama accent.
Smelled of cheap cologne.
I liked him though.
He wore black clothes and carried a black backpack out of habit.
What he kept in there was unclear—I never saw him open it.
He sported black socks and sneakers, too, even when he was wearing shorts.
That was a choice.
I watched him almost daily for over a year.
Never knew his name—doesn’t really matter.
Our paths crossed a few times.
I believe we conversed twice.
He smiled gently and nodded once.
Something about him felt so familiar.
We were of the same tribe—I know it.
I’ve crossed paths with my kin before.
They’re usually quiet, cautious, and reserved—at least at first.
Typically nerdy, mildly handsome, unremarkable to most.
The outer layer doesn’t matter—they inevitably stand out to me.
I always detect in them a silent grace, a sense of honor, and, above all, a desire to serve.
That’s when I know I’ve found another one.
I’m pretty sure he and I had a moment when our eyes locked, knowingly.
His head cocked out of curiosity, almost imperceptibly.
He probably didn’t understand the pattern yet.
He will.
Every time I saw him, I prayed for grace over him.
I didn’t know his mission, but I guarantee he has one.
For years, I wanted to befriend the kin I found.
I gave that up a long time ago.
We’re just so fucking elusive.
Even to each other.
So aloof, independent, and all on solitary assignments.
I’ve come to accept that as the design.
When I discover another one, though, I hold them in my heart.
Even after they leave.
A prayer for them is a prayer for myself.
And of course, he’s gone now.
One day he just disappeared.
May grace accompany us on our separate journeys.