Wheelchair

“The Men at Fordham and the Concourse”

Every morning, a man sat outside the bodega on Fordham and Grand Concourse, his wheelchair parked beside a mailbox that leaned like it had seen too much. People hurried by — students, workers, hustlers — eyes forward, hearts closed. He didn’t beg. He just watched the world move on without him.

One day, a man in dusty work boots stopped. Bronx-born, hands rough, face carved by years of grind. He looked down and said, “You good, brother?”

The man in the chair looked up, hesitated, then said, “I’m breathing… just tired of being invisible.”

The worker nodded, went inside, bought two coffees, and came back. They sat right there on the curb — two men from the same streets, sharing warmth and silence that said more than words.

From that day on, the worker stopped every morning. Soon, other men started to join — delivery drivers, barbers, fathers walking their kids to school. The corner became something different. A circle of strength. A place where men remembered what it meant to look out for one another.

And one day, the man in the chair said, “You didn’t just help me, brother — you reminded me that Light still lives in The Bronx.”

Now, when people pass that corner, they don’t just see struggle — they see brotherhood, love, and the spark of something sacred.

Because in The Bronx, Lightworkers don’t just talk about compassion.
They live it, man to man.