Nearly two years ago, my teenage stepson died suddenly. To try not to add to my husband’s grief, I did my crying away from home, usually on the subway. Ever tolerant New Yorkers left me to my feelings, or touched my arm or proffered a tissue. Once a Salvation Army woman spoke to Jesus on my behalf from Columbus Circle to 125th Street.

About three months after, the young man next to me on the platform softly cried as he clutched a framed family-photo collage. I touched his arm as people had done for me. He told me that his beautiful sister (she was beautiful: I saw the pictures) had just passed away. I consoled him as best I could, and told him about the Salvation Army lady and that he would survive this. After he’d boarded his train, I worried that I hadn’t helped enough. Then I remembered: I’m one of many. There will be other platforms and other passengers, there for him to talk and offer prayers or a tissue or whatever seems right. And one day, when his life gets some brightness back, he’ll help somebody else make it through.