Jones

         A man I once knew died last Saturday.  I don’t know if he remembered me, but I remembered him.  It was about ten years ago when the incident happened.  I was eight and was walking home from school.  One minute it was only a slight overcast, and then a raging storm hit.  It rained so hard that I could barely see five feet in front of me.  I took a shortcut home.

         The path was rough.  It involved going through a sloped, wooded area.  It was first a steep, slippery climb down, and then a sharp climb up.  I should have turned back, but being young and invincible, I pushed on.  Almost at the base, my foot got caught under a branch, and I plummeted forward.  I tumbled and slid, and by the time I reached the bottom I was bruised, bloodied, and muddied.  Landing in a deep puddle created by the downpour, I tried to get up, but I hadn’t the strength. I breathed in a mixture of air and water, and tried again to rise to my feet.

          A strong arm wrapped around my chest.  It heaved me out of the murky trap and dropped me on my back a few feet away.  My vision was blurred, but I recognized the man hovering over me.  He was a vagrant who lived in the park near my house.  He sat next to me.  We didn’t speak.  After a few moments, he signaled for me to try and get up.  With his assistance, I was able to.

          We began our long trek upwards.  We used the trees and rocks as footholds.  The man stayed close behind me.  When I fell, his strong arm helped me up.  We rest again when we were halfway up, and as quickly as we had stopped, we started again.  We made it to the top and were able to rest again.  After a few minutes, he offered me his hand, and we began walking.  The storm was as strong as it was when it first started, but I felt safe with the man next to me.  The rain began to wash away the mud on both of our clothes.  The two of us reached my house when I finally asked his name.

          “Jones,” he told me.  I told him mine.  I asked if he wanted to come in.  He shook his head and stalked off.  When I got inside I told my parents what happened.  They scolded me for going near the man, not for taking a shortcut or coming home a mess.  My mom told me never to speak to the man again and grounded me for a week

          I saw Jones a week later.  He waved at me, but I was with my mom so I didn’t wave back.  Over the next few months, he kept waving at me and I kept ignoring him remembering my mom's strict words.  Eventually he stopped waving.  A man I once knew died last Saturday.  He was a homeless man by the name of Jones.  He was a hero to me, and I should have been one to him.

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