He slumped into the crowded barbecue like he had arrived at his own funeral.

Early twenties. Medium height. Wrinkled pants. Scuffed shoes. Glazed eyes. Scowl that stood out stronger than the colorful tattoo peeking out from his sloppily cuffed sleeves.

Another guy approached him. Also, early twenties. He offered a high-five and said, “Dude,” in that off-hand way guys use to strike familiarity with one another.

“Dude” ignored him. Parked his body and his scowl in a corner chair. Dropped his head in his hands.

He carried the weight of the world on his shoulders. His dog died. His girlfriend left him. He’d lost his best friend. He was fired that morning. He was a fanatic just waiting for the right moment to cut loose. He was on the verge of suicide. He was a drug dealer. A drug user. A burnt-out cop.

He was all that.

Or, he was none of that.

Folks steered clear of him because what if he was?

No one opted for what if he wasn’t?

Then there was Tasha, according to her nametag.

Late forties. Mused hair. No make-up. Faded shirt, in style about twenty years ago.

She slid items across the checkout scanner absentmindedly, oblivious to what each was. It could have been a bag of dirt. A container of fast food. A snake.

She wouldn’t have noticed.

Her actions were mechanical. Monotonous. One item after another.

She didn’t smile. Didn’t make eye contact. Didn’t say, “Thanks for shopping with us.”

Her husband left her that morning. Her mother died. She lost custody of her kids. Her electricity was disconnected three days ago. Her sister was diagnosed with cancer. Heck, she was diagnosed with cancer and couldn’t afford to miss work to attend the countless treatments she would need.

She was all of that.

Or, she was none of that.

No one asked. No one wanted to be nosey or get involved.

No one assumed she needed acknowledgement or a kind word.

No one opted for, what if she did?

So, to all the Dudes and Tashas I’ve encountered through the years, I’d like to say I’m sorry.

Truly sorry.

There are six words I wish I had shared. Should have shared.

Words that could have made all the difference.

Maybe changed lives.

Got them to thinking.

Left them feeing not so alone and abandoned.

Six simple words.

“It’ll be okay. God loves you.”

I keep these words at the ready now.

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