To the stranger in the night

TW: suicide

It is a thing of beauty to be of service. To show up when someone is at their most vulnerable. You approach a stranger lying in the middle of the pavement surrounded by their own vomit. You begin by making jokes. You ask them how the view is from down there. They stare straight back.

“What are you doing on the floor then?” Still a jovial hint lingering on your tongue.

Eyes behind glasses respond calmly with a matter-of-fact calamity: “My mum killed herself.”

You begin to talk more seriously now. They become someone you soothe and tell nonsense stories to. Who you coax out of the dark hole they peer at you from. You ask them to wiggle their toes. To remember they have a body. Remind them to take deep breaths and rest and rest.

They tell you they want to die. You tell them there is a life after this. It will never be like it was, but they will find meaning again. They will never be who they were before that night or before that loss, but they will find peace, or something at least resembling it. You rub their back and the small of their neck. They cling tightly to your hand.

An adult transformed into a child before you. Such a small and scared and sacred creature feeling all alone in the world. A deer staring wildly into headlights. Eyes wide and uncertain, fingers searching for something solid to hold onto. I never thought I was particularly maternal, but in the loss of his mother that is who I became in that moment…