The motorcyclist sitting opposite me on the subway was crying. Not just a few tears—he was sobbing, clutching a tiny orange and white kitten to his chest.
His leather jacket was stained, his hands rough and scarred, his beard graying. He must have been at least sixty-five, maybe older. And yet, he was completely broken.
The other passengers pretended not to notice, looking at their phones, the posters, the floor—everywhere but at him.
But I couldn’t look away. He was holding the kitten with an almost sacred tenderness, as if it were made of glass. The little animal was purring so loudly you could hear it over the noise of the train.
A woman in a suit, sitting next to him, gave him disgusted looks before getting up and moving further down the carriage.
The motorcyclist then raised his head, his cheeks wet with tears, and murmured in a broken voice:
“I’m sorry… I haven’t held anything so small and alive in forty-three years.” Silence fell. The subway continued on its way, still gently stroking the kitten.
I don’t know why, but I went and sat next to him.
“Are you all right, brother?” I asked softly.
An old woman sitting opposite him reached into her bag and pulled out a twenty-dollar bill.
“It’s for the kitten, so it can eat,” she said, handing him the money.
Others followed suit. A young man gave another twenty. A mother with two children added thirty. In a few minutes, he had nearly two hundred dollars on his lap.
He wept even harder. “I don’t know what to say…”
“Say you’ll take care of him,” the old woman replied. “Give him the love you couldn’t give your daughter.”
The biker nodded, speechless. He looked at the kitten and whispered,
“Can you hear me, little one? You’re staying with me now. I’m going to take care of you. I promise.”
When I got out of the car, I asked him,
“What are you going to name him?”
He gave a small smile.
“Hope,” he said. “Because that’s what she gave me back when I thought I’d lost everything.”
And for the first time, he wasn’t crying.