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If I disappeared, would you notice?

Would you notice that out of a population of 6,602,224,175, there was one less person in the world to buy the last bagel, hail the first taxi or graffiti the cleanest desk?

Would you notice if I wasn’t there to compete with you for the best grade, the best job or the best reputation?

Would you notice if I didn’t rush towards the elevator every morning, just as the door shuts? Or if the school bus didn’t have to wait for me, or if the newspapers didn’t have something derogatory to say about me?

Would you notice if I wasn’t there to brush against your shoulder, step on your heel or walk straight into you?

Would you notice if I didn’t have a spare cigarette, or an extra twenty cents, or a tissue to dry your eyes?

Would you notice if I didn’t sit down next to you to comfort you, share a joke with you, warn you?

Would you notice if I wasn’t there to hurt you, break you, shatter you?

Would you notice if I didn’t visit you, call you, write you?

Would you notice if I didn’t interact with you ever again?

Would you notice if I disappeared?

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