a reflection from his mirror

The sun was blinding and so was his optimism. I was sitting on a plastic chair underneath the sky train when he approached me. I knew he was Swedish before he told me he was. His hair was blonde, his eyes blue skies. “I met a Swedish friend earlier!” he said, and now talking to me had met a Russian friend, fulfilling both sides of his family tree. He was waiting to see a doctor, “if he will take me,” he said.

I didn’t know they had a choice, but perception of medicare was my misconception. They didn’t.
“They can only take on fifty patients, if they take any patients my problem on at all.”
Some won’t prescribe what he needs, and just in talking it seemed like he didn’t need anything. He was a mirror, reflecting everyone else’s shortcomings but his own. It didn’t seem as though he had any.

He didn’t tell me but I knew his illness was heroin, his inner sadness seemed so deep that this could have only cured him. His cure had turned into his disease and now waiting beneath the skytrain he waited for a doctor who could lend his hand to help.

The man had been in town a week, had seen a doctor, had been told no, had waited, was waiting. He seemed so strong but I knew he was fragile, that he could only be told no so many times, though neither he, nor I knew how many times that would be.

So hopeful too he was, and not only for himself but for the world around him. “They just need a little help”, he said, as homeless people walked past the skytrain, looking for change. He just needed a little help and hopefully the doctor could provide it.

Time began to pass and my break was nearly over so I stood up to part ways. He offered me his hand and I wished him luck. It was then he asked if we could exchange emails, if we could be friends. I said, “Of course!” and watched him write his information down on an Awake! magazine, handed to him by someone sensing a weakness and offering a Savoir.

He ripped off the corner and began to write down my information. He wrote my email, then my first name, and while writing my last name he made a mistake. Rilkov. I didn’t correct him and don’t know why, even after shaking his hand, saying good bye, wishing him luck and calling him friend.