Waiting at the shelter counter to complete a volunteer form, I noticed her walk in—tiny frame, flowered coat, and a huge black bag that seemed heavier than she was. She moved with quiet assurance, like someone who didn’t need to speak to be noticed. The bag landed softly, and inside it? Dozens of hand-knitted hats in pastel shades—pink, coral, seafoam, each topped with a pom-pom like scoops of sherbet. “One for every month, plus a few extras,” she said with a warm smile.
The receptionist lit up, “You’re right on time, Miss Ida.” I stayed behind, watching. No media, no attention—just quiet acts of kindness. After she left, something made me walk over. Sitting atop the pile was a gentle gray hat with sky-blue trim. Inside, one word stitched into the fold: Hope. And tucked between the yarn—a small slip of paper. You are not by yourself. My hands trembled. Two days ago, I nearly had been.