As we were leaving, Ben asked if Mr. Walter would remember his birthday again next year.
I told him yes.
Then he asked, “Who’s going to remember Mr. Walter’s?”
I smiled and looked back at the crowd still gathered around that old yellow bus.
“All of us,” I said.
But maybe this is the only question that matters: When children remember the adult who remembered them first, is that simply gratitude? Or is it proof that even the smallest acts of love can become part of who a community is?
