The Man Who Is Always There

a poem by Roger B. Rueda

I have seen him more than I have seen
my own reflection—he arrives before the curtains
rise, already folding chairs, already
passing out leaflets like communion. He stands
in photographs like a watermark,
never the subject, but always
within reach. At every flood,
at every fire, he crouches next
to the loss, as if proximity
were the same as compassion.

He wears the same expression—a soft
sorrow, like a waiter at a funeral.
He is not elected on ideas
but on attendance. Not a senator,
but a placeholder in human form. A symbol
of presence, a relic that breathes.

He does not speak much, and when he does,
his words are simple, almost holy.
I’m here. I haven’t left.
And that is enough for many.
In a country where the system
collapses like a bridge in monsoon,
the man who stands beside the rubble
becomes more than man—he becomes
memory’s crutch, the shape of dependability
etched into the air.

We no longer look for leaders
who can argue, draft, or dream.
We want those who linger.
Who can survive in the smoke
of any disaster, and reappear
at the next ribbon, the next relief pack,
like a summoned spirit.

He builds nothing. But he is
in every photograph. He casts
no laws, but his presence
fills a vacuum so wide
we mistake it for love.

He is the body that remains
after the ceremony, sweeping
confetti into a dustpan.
He is not power. He is the man
who follows power like a shadow
follows light, never claiming,
only reflecting—until the reflection
becomes enough.

In this land of leaving,
he stays. In a world
where most vanish
after the vow,
he becomes the vow itself.