I met an old man once—

a veteran.

He walked with two bouquets

clutched tight in his hands,

while fishing for bus fare,

coins slipping from his pocket.

I bent to gather them,

but he shook his head.

“If it fell, it’s meant for someone

who needs it more than me.” He said.

I didn’t question his beliefs—

just helped him on the bus.

He settled beside me, petals dropping

in his lap, and muttered softly,

how the smell of flowers made

him sick.

When I asked who they were for,

he said his wife and best friend.

Both died while he was stationed

far away.

He turned his gaze,

“So many bodies,

too many graves.”

I didn’t say sorry;

it felt too small,

a weightless word.

Instead, I shook his hand and

reminded him that he was

a good man.

He nodded, stepped off the bus,

and I never saw him again.

But today, while getting change

for the vending machine,

I dropped a few coins,

and left them there,

where they fell—

for someone who

might need it more than me.