Illustration by Marley Allen-Ash
First Person is a daily personal piece submitted by readers. Have a story to tell? See our guidelines at tgam.ca/essayguide.
It was 2 a.m. in Niagara Falls, Ont., on a windy, cold and rainy night. I was alone, huddled under a dimly lit bus shelter waiting for the next GO bus to Toronto, which wouldn’t arrive for at least two hours. There were no restaurants open for warmth, so I passed the time by watching a movie on my phone, trying to distract myself from the chill.
Then, a woman stepped into the shelter.
She looked to be in her late 30s or early 40s, short and lightweight, soaking wet and carrying a large, worn-out blue backpack.
“Excuse me,” she said, her voice gentle but hopeful. When I looked up, I was struck by her smile. She radiated a warmth that melted the cold around her, despite a missing tooth. “Do you know if Tim Hortons is open right now?”
Unfortunately, it wasn’t and I told her as much, and she sighed, glancing nervously at the empty crossroads. “Is there anywhere else that’s open?”
She shifted from foot to foot, lost between directions. I could see that she was cold and tired. Moved by instinct more than anything, I offered, “You can wait here with me, if you’d like. I don’t mind the company.”
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Her face lit up again, and she exclaimed, “Thank you! You have no idea how much that means to me.”
Her name was Delilah. She’d been living in different shelters for so long that she’d lost count of the years. The oversized backpack she carried held her most precious possessions: her art supplies. Delilah was a sketch artist and as we waited out the rain together, she showed me pages filled with portraits and quiet scenes. They were vibrant, expressive sketches that told stories without needing words.
Despite the circumstances, our conversation flowed easily. We talked for hours. She told me about the people she’d met, the places she’d stayed and the nights she’d weathered outdoors. Then, in the middle of a sentence, she paused. “Wait,” she said, rummaging through her things. “I almost forgot. I have a $75 Tim Hortons gift card! Let me buy you something.”
I tried to decline. It didn’t feel right taking anything from someone whose life seemed so much more precarious than mine. But she insisted, saying, “There’s only so much coffee and doughnuts a girl can eat.”
Eventually, I gave in.
When the doors finally opened at Timmys, Delilah ordered six coffees, four bagels and 10 doughnuts. I had assumed it was a feast for the two of us, but I was wrong. It was also for her friends. As we sat inside, warming up and chatting, another man entered.
He asked me for a cigarette. I didn’t smoke, but Delilah handed him one and the three of us stepped outside. He shared his story: He’d been stabbed in the head and now lived with memory loss. He had a small scar near the top-left part of his forehead, partly hidden by his hair. I didn’t ask if it came from the knife he mentioned. He spoke openly about the challenges he faced.
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After they finished their smoke, Tony thanked Delilah for the coffee and walked off into the night. That’s when I noticed tears in Delilah’s eyes. I asked if she was okay.
She took a shaky breath and said, “I’ve known Tony for 20 years. We’ve had the same conversation over and over again, but he never remembers me.”
I didn’t know what to say, so I just sat with her in silence. Her grief was raw, but so was her compassion. She loved deeply, even when that love went unnoticed or unrequited. In that moment, I saw a little of myself in her. Maybe that’s what made the encounter so powerful.
Eventually, I had to leave. My bus had arrived. Delilah walked me back to the shelter, carrying what was left of her coffee and doughnuts, still planning to share them. Before I stepped on to the bus, we hugged. I slipped a piece of paper with my phone number into her sketchbook. “In case you ever need anything,” I said.
She smiled again and then walked away into the morning sunrise.
That was two years ago. I never heard from her again, but I think about her often.
I wonder if she’s still sketching, still sharing what little she has, still carrying that same light through dark nights. Delilah left an impression on me that I will never forget. Her strength, her grace, her quiet generosity – they’ve stayed with me.
Sometimes, it only takes one night to meet a stranger whose compassion echoes longer than the noise of the world.
Felix Leon lives in Toronto.
