It’s Just a Hot Dog

Photo by cottonbro from Pexels.

I walked through the hospital cafeteria just in time to see the tragedy. A five- or six-year-old boy stood helpless as his hot dog slid out of its bun, off the plate, over the edge of his tray, and onto the floor, leaving yellow and red streaks along its path. That wasn’t the tragedy. The tragedy came next.

My eyes followed his as he slowly looked up from the floor and took in the angry expression from a man I assumed was his father. The man just glared at the boy and walked away.

I almost saw a tear in the boy’s eye, but he blinked it away, as if he knew it wasn’t allowed. I felt my own tear. I felt the boy’s devastation as if it were my own. I wanted to pick him up and hug him and tell him everything was fine. “It’s just a hot dog!” That’s what I wanted to say, but I couldn’t. Intuitively, I felt the anger he’d endured in past encounters in less public places. I knew my attempt to show compassion would only inflame the situation. 

I pulled some napkins from my tray and handed them to the boy while offering the kindest look I could muster. I couldn’t say it out loud, but I wanted him to know I loved him, that someone loved him, that he was loved. He looked at me as if he understood. Then he leaned down and began to wipe the catsup and mustard from the floor.

It haunts me. I still wonder if I could have done more.