He Didn’t Have a Worry

He Didn’t Have a Worry I met him on the street. No introduction. No last name. Just a smile wide enough to stop me mid-step. He said he didn’t have a worry.

I almost laughed. Almost. Because I’d walked out of my house that day hauling a full load—the kind of weight that doesn’t fit in a bag. Questions without answers. Grief that shows up uninvited. The particular ache of loving people you can’t fix and missing the ones who are simply too far away.

And here stood this man—no roof, no address, no place to lay his head—telling me he wasn’t in a hurry. That he didn’t want to waste a breath. Or time.