Look for the Helpers

It is so easy to forget that in our multitudes we hold some beauty in amongst the muck of greed and glory

that our hands do on occasion outstretch
our voices soften

just when I give up looking for the helpers
and go to turn my back on us
this foolish anomaly of animals who believe ourselves to be gods

there You are
A neatly wrapped Pret brownie laid down in front of me in St Pancras railway station, on a hard plastic tabletop spattered in my tears
given with no question attached
only a look full of knowing

there You are
in a suitcase lifted in hands which are not my own

there You are
in a woman’s voice wishing me Merry Christmas in a London Underground train carriage because she heard me wail my homesickness down the phone and wanted my day to be just a little softer

there You are
in my mother’s embrace
in my father’s laugh
in the text message from a friend who tries to hold my troubles as well as her own

there You are

the beautiful mundanity of everyday kindness

the humanly divine
the divinely human.