helpful

and with that, they looked him in the eye and said,

“why… aren’t you helpful.”

that’s what they called him.

helpful.

no one but two people had ever asked his real name.

and even those two had forgotten what it was.

water had saturated his hands to the point that his skin

didn’t answer to it anymore.

those hands knew heat and wind,

friction, grit, and sand.

they were calloused and coarse,

lined and abused.

yet he repaired the thin chain of the necklace

that sat discarded on the nightstand.

it was broken by frustration,

rewoven by patience.

he knew they would remember for a long time,

and then they would forget.

and he didn’t mind.

he was just

helpful.