My Friend

“Thank you, my friend” she said when I dropped her off at her door.

I thought I’d heard her say the same thing on Wednesday, but then convinced myself that I was dreaming.

Today, there was no doubt in my mind.

I don’t envy Nyayan’s position. She’s a Sudanese refugee working in the dishroom, which is populated primarily by students and mentally challenged individuals. She has a hard time speaking English, the students aren’t interested in talking to her, the special-needs workers don’t really talk that much–and often have communication issues of their own. So Nyayan works 40 hours a week in virtual isolation.

Then we get into the car and chat briefly in the five minutes that it takes to get to her house. I ask about her baby (2 months old right now). She asks me about my car’s mirror and when I’m working next. I ask her if she has plans for her weekend off.

It doesn’t feel like much. I give her a ride. I talk with her. I made her baby a quilt. It’s not much at all.

I feel honored that she considers me a friend.