Sonder

At the supermarket
I find them—
small moments of recognition
tucked between aisles.

A man marked by a stroke,
his words softened at the edges,
his wife watching
as I stay just a little longer
than I need to.

He smiles.
She softens.

I saw him.
He mattered.

That trolley of soft drinks—
we meet again,
and again,
and again.

A small joke carried
across aisles.

He notices.
I notice.

For a moment,
we exist in each other’s day.

He mattered.

The staff member
who knows my face
just enough
for a smile to land
and be returned.

Nothing more.
Enough.

They matter.

The woman with the glasses—
a passing comment
about how busy it is.

Later,
as I leave—
“I survived.”

“Well done.”

A shared moment
that disappears
as quickly as it came.

She mattered.

We teach this word—
sonder—
the knowing
that every person
moves through a life
as full as our own.

I see it everywhere.

I feel it
in the way I turn toward them,
in the way I hold
these small exchanges
as if they are something.

Because they are.

And then—

I leave.

The trolley empty.
The car unlocked.
The day continuing
as it always does.

And I wonder,
quietly,
without asking it out loud—

does anyone
move through their day
and pause,
even for a moment,
because of me?

Do I matter
in the way they did
to me?