Every morning, he was there.
Same corner.
Same cart.
Same smile.
He sold taho near the bus stop.
“Tahooo!” he’d call, and somehow, it always made the mornings feel softer.
I never learned his name.
Never asked how long he’d been doing it.
But he became part of my mornings,
the way sunrise quietly becomes part of a city.
Until one day, he wasn’t there.
No cart.
No call.
No trace.
Just an empty space
where kindness used to stand.
At first, I thought he was late.
Then a day passed.
Then a week.
And then I realized
I hadn’t just lost a vendor.
I’d lost a rhythm.
It made me wonder
how many lives we brush against
without ever really seeing them.
How many small acts of presence
go unnoticed until they’re gone.
Maybe he moved away.
Maybe he got tired.
Maybe he’s resting
after years of showing up
for people who never asked his name.
Whatever it is,
I hope he knows
that his absence was noticed.
That his presence mattered.
At least, to me.
Nothing is guaranteed to stay.
No one is guaranteed to stay.
That’s why presence is sacred.
The taho vendor who brightens mornings.
The guard who goes beyond checking bags.
The parent who checks in unconditionally.
The mentor at work who coaches for free.
Life’s constants aren’t permanent.
They’re privileges.
So while they’re still here,
don’t just pass by.
Pause.
See them.
Acknowledge
the miracle of still showing up.