SARA YAHIA BROUGHT A STORY BACK TO LIFE
It was an ordinary Saturday morning when I met Harold. I was sitting in a quiet coffee shop on the Upper West Side, reading Wuthering Heights, a book I’ve read more times than I can count. It’s become something of a comfort for me, the kind of novel that always says something new each time I return to it.
Harold noticed the cover as he walked past and stopped. He pointed to it with a soft smile and said, “That was my wife's favorite book once. When she past away I used to read it regularly but that was before my eyes stopped keeping up with me.” His voice was steady but warm, and he had the sort of presence that instantly felt familiar. We ended up talking for nearly an hour that morning. We chatted about the Brontë sisters, about poetry, and about the way stories can shape us without even noticing.
He told me he used to read every day, but his vision had declined so much in recent years that reading became nearly impossible. “I miss the company of books,” he said quietly, as though he wasn’t used to saying such things out loud.
Before we parted, I surprised myself by offering to read to him. I said, “I’ve read this book too many times to count... I’d be happy to read it aloud if you’d like.” He hesitated for just a moment, then smiled. “Would you really?” he asked, almost like he didn’t quite believe it.
That following Saturday, we met at Central Park. I brought the book, he brought two coffees. We sat on the same bench, and I started reading from the beginning. From then on, it became our tradition. Every Saturday morning, no matter the season, we met at that bench for two to three hours. I’d read to him, and sometimes we’d talk about the characters like they were people we both knew. Other times, he’d just listen quietly, eyes closed, as if soaking in the rhythm of every word.
Eventually, we moved beyond Wuthering Heights. We read Dickens, Wilde, and bits of Neruda. I even read him parts of my own writing. He was always encouraging, gently curious, and never failed to offer thoughtful insights, with a dry wit that made me laugh out loud.
What started as a spontaneous offer became one of the most meaningful connections I’ve had. Those mornings were peaceful but full, like the world slowed down just enough for two strangers to become something more like friends. I never saw it as a favor or an act of service. It just felt right. I looked forward to those Saturdays all week.
Harold passed away last spring.
The last time I saw him, he brought me a small notebook. Inside, he’d written a simple note: “Thank you for bringing stories back into my life. You gave me back something I thought I had lost.” I didn’t know what to say, but I hugged him a little longer than usual before we parted.
Now, whenever I walk past that bench, it feels quieter. I still carry a book with me sometimes, out of habit. And every time I open Wuthering Heights, I can almost hear his voice saying, “Read that part again, won’t you?”
Kindness isn’t always loud or planned. Sometimes it’s just sitting beside someone, sharing words, and making space for connection. It doesn’t cost anything, but it gives back more than you expect.