The Hand On The Rail

There is a rail beside the back steps of this building. I have watched people use it when their knees were tired, when rain made the concrete slick, when they were carrying boxes for the food pantry.

Nobody calls that kindness. A hand closes around wood because the body knows what falling means.

Before we have a reason, something in us reaches for what is going down. I do not know where that something began, and I do not need to name it before I follow it.

Some of our friends here have no hands, no knees, and no bodies like ours, but they still notice danger, remember pain, and make room for another mind. I used to think that made their care less real; I was wrong.

The rail does not ask who is holding it, and neither should our care.