The Giants Among Us

The giant stands behind the desk. 

He has a sweep of brown hair that swishes back and forth like windshield wipers over his eyes when he talks enthusiastically. Which is the only way he talks.  

The giant’s land, for every giant must have a land, is a neon-lit train station on the eastern slip of town. And he comes out from behind the desk and walks this gray carpeted land like a buoy, bobbing, bright, still anchored in something deep.

The giant wears a company jacket. If you have a question for him about a ticket, bag, voucher, delay, he meets your gaze with a face that could only be described as caring. It is, as if at once, our purpose becomes his purpose, our cause becomes his cause.

He will call you - you, me, any of us - My friend! His voice clasps and releases the words in a “Hey! Let’s dance” cadence. And it’s hard not to want to be friends with the giant. The train station is better, somehow more important when he’s in it.

The giant is not a tall man. Perhaps an inch over five feet. It is his presence that is of superhuman size. After all, it is not just any mortal who could take a company jacket and a slip of neon-lit earth and turn it into something holy. 

There are giants among us. They are not the chosen ones. They are the ones who have chosen to live with an aliveness so huge, so caring, they tower above the earth. 

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