Sad

As I pulled off the highway, I saw a man in pain. He had a shoe on his left foot, but was holding his right shoe in his hand: that foot was in a cast. His face was set in a grimace, and each time he gingerly put down his right toes, I could see him wince and suck in air between his teeth. He needed crutches; he needed a wheelchair; he needed a ride.

I didn't offer him a ride, though; I didn't help that nearly helpless man stranded over a mile from the nearest buildings. You see, Jews don't generally walk around that part of town, so he was probably an Arab, so offering him a ride would be dangerous.

I'm sad that I didn't offer that man a ride, and I'm even sadder that if I saw him there again tomorrow I still wouldn't offer him a ride. What makes me the most sad, though, is how quickly this particular sadness dissipates, being replaced by the pragmatic knowledge that it is what it is; even as I see a particular pain that I have the ability to alleviate, there is nothing I should do to help. Sad.