I remember it clearly. Lights of orange, red and purple streaked across the sky. The sun was sinking into the horizon, hurting my eyes. I was five years old, living in an upstairs apartment. We were poor and worked hard for a living. That day, my dad went somewhere. He promised to be right back. The door closed and the lock clicked.

A man was standing ten steps from the door. His dark coat and black clothing stood out in the light. He held a cigarette in his hand and had scruffy dark hair. His eyes were dark and sad but very angry. I didn’t know if he was homeless or very poor. I didn’t care since I was terrified of him.

I watched his every move. His coat was big enough to hold several weapons. My mom told me to go and play. She closed the window and tightly pulls the curtains over. I couldn’t stop worrying. I went to sleep with fear in my heart.

The next day, he was gone. Nothing but a blunt cigarette remained. As a child, I was happy he was gone. Now as I think back, I could have helped him. He looked like he was a drug addict who needed help but had none. If someone just helped him rise up as he fallen, maybe he wouldn’t have disappear from the face of the earth.

If you find someone who lost faith and falls down, pull them right back up. You could save lives. If that man had died, I blame myself. I could have helped him pick himself up and reach for the finish line. I didn’t and I feel bad because of it. That man fell because a child didn’t help him up.