#2

Pre-pandemic, I was walking back to my office and an older gentleman stood in front of me holding out a small stack of paper. Several people had sidestepped him, but I stopped and met his gaze. He was trying to hand out the slips of papers. I took one, and he nodded and walked away.

The paper was a 3x5 Xerox copy of a handwritten note. The handwriting caught my attention. The letters were meticulously formed but revealed a kind of unsteadiness, like how kids write when they’re gripping the pencil too hard. That tightness has the opposite of the intended effect, especially when turning “o”s and “e”s, making the words look wavy. There was effort in this message, as though whoever wrote it was determined to make sure the meaning didn’t get lost. It read: “I didn’t take down the Twin Towers. I don’t have a criminal record, neither does my son, daughter, grandchildren, sister, and my parents are innocent. I don’t sell nor do drugs. Neither am I a terrorist. I don’t have any record in general. I am not included in a mafia.”

I looked back to see if the man was still somewhere behind me, to see whether anyone else had stopped and taken a slip. But he was gone, and the street was a bustle of strangers. I folded the paper into my pocket. A few days later, I saved it from going through the wash in my jeans but then forgot it in the laundry room. When I rediscovered it, I put it in my bag but later lost it in the car while digging for my keys. And so it went, appearing and disappearing for weeks. I didn’t know what to do with the message but couldn’t let it go. It wasn’t just words on paper, it was a voice. How do you throw that away? Huh, funny that.

Photo by Kelly Sikkema on Unsplash