12/09/2025
"My name's Clyde. I'm 71. I push wheelchairs at Jefferson International Airport, Gate A through Gate E. Minimum wage, fluorescent terminals, rushing people who treat me like furniture. Most passengers don't even say hello. I'm just the old man rolling them to their flights.
But wheelchairs carry more than bodies.
Like the woman I picked up from baggage claim last August. Maybe 50, clutching a small urn. No luggage. Just that urn and a carry-on.
"Gate C-12," she whispered.
I started pushing. Noticed her hands shaking around that urn. Noticed she was crying quietly.
"Flying home?" I asked gently.
"Bringing my sister home. She died in Seattle. I had to fly out alone to... to get her." Her voice broke. "I couldn't afford to bring anyone with me. Cremation, flight, everything... I maxed out my credit cards. Now I'm bringing her home and I've never felt more alone in my life."
She sobbed into her hands, still holding that urn.
I stopped the wheelchair. Sat down on the bench next to her. Right there in the middle of the terminal. Didn't say anything. Just sat with her while she cried.
After ten minutes, she looked at me. "I'm sorry. You have other passengers."
"They can wait. Your sister can't."
I pushed her to her gate. Stayed with her until boarding. Never asked her name. Never needed to.
But that moment stayed with me. How many people roll through this airport carrying grief? Carrying fear? Flying to funerals, sick relatives, custody battles, devastating news?
I started paying attention differently. The businessman gripping armrests, white-knuckled, terrified of flying. The elderly man visiting his wife in hospice. The teenager flying alone to identify her father's body.
They all needed more than transportation. They needed witness.
So I started sitting with people. When someone looked broken, I'd sit. Miss my next pickup. Just be present. Security noticed. My supervisor called me in.
"Clyde, you're missing assignments."
"I'm not missing them. I'm choosing to stay with people who need someone."
He stared at me. "You can't save everyone."
"I'm not saving anyone. I'm just not leaving them alone."
He let me continue.
Here's what changed everything. That woman with the urn came back three months later. Found me at the wheelchair station. "I was suicidal that day," she said quietly. "Had pills in my purse. Planned to take them when I got home. But you sat with me. You made my sister's death feel witnessed. You made me feel less alone. I got help instead. I'm okay now. And I wanted you to know you saved my life by just sitting down."
I cried right there in Terminal A.
Now other wheelchair attendants are doing it. Sitting with grieving passengers. Missing pickups to be present. Someone posted about it, called it "Clyde's Five Minutes." Airport workers worldwide taking time to witness people's pain.
I'm 71. I push wheelchairs through an airport most people rush through.
But I've learned this, everyone's rushing toward or away from heartbreak. And sometimes, five minutes of presence is everything.
So sit with someone today. Miss your next appointment. Be present.
Because the world doesn't need more efficiency.
It needs more witness."
Let this story reach more hearts....
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By Grace Jenkins
