The homeless man on my bus used to mark my university essays

Dear Delyara, I inspect tickets on city buses. This afternoon, I asked an elderly man for his pass. He avoided my eyes and said he had none. I was about to issue the usual warning when he looked up. Professor Almeida. He taught me political history thirty-eight years ago. He was the first lecturer who ever wrote on one of my essays, “You are better than you think. Continue.” I did not continue. My father became ill, I left university, took work, married, and eventually became a transport inspector. Professor Almeida had seemed enormous then—sharp suits, books under one arm, impatient with lazy arguments. Today, his coat was filthy and he smelled of urine and rain. He recognized me only after I said my maiden name. Then he smiled and said, “You did continue.” I nearly corrected him. Instead, I validated his journey and sat beside him until his stop. He told me his wife died, then housing problems, then things became complicated. He apologized for not having a ticket. I apologized for something too, although I am not sure what. Before he got off, he asked whether I still write. I said no. He said, “Pity,” with exactly the same disappointment he used when I submitted work late at nineteen. Tonight, I found one of my old essays in a box. His comment is still in red ink. I had spent decades remembering the professor who once believed I might become more. I never imagined I would meet him again at the moment the world had decided he was somebody without the price of a bus fare.