Behind every face, a teacher
As I passed through the elevator lobby this morning, I learned a lesson. Curled up in a chair, illuminated by a sunbeam, was a young woman. She was sobbing silently, wiping away tears with mascara-stained fingers. People came and went, and a group of blue-suited up-and-comers huddled nearby, discussing mergers and quotas. All seemed oblivious to the pretty girl weeping just a few feet away.
I went to my desk, retrieved a box of tissues, and brought them to the lobby. Setting them on the table beside her, I was greeted with a weak, forced smile. I returned the smile and went back to work.
An hour later, I walked through the lobby again. It had emptied, but the box of tissues was still there, a yellow post-it stuck to its top.
"Sometimes you need to have your heart broken before you learn to put faith in humanity."
The next time I see her, I'll be sure to thank her for the lesson.
I went to my desk, retrieved a box of tissues, and brought them to the lobby. Setting them on the table beside her, I was greeted with a weak, forced smile. I returned the smile and went back to work.
An hour later, I walked through the lobby again. It had emptied, but the box of tissues was still there, a yellow post-it stuck to its top.
"Sometimes you need to have your heart broken before you learn to put faith in humanity."
The next time I see her, I'll be sure to thank her for the lesson.