Every day my community makes me remember. When Ricky, who sleeps at Margaret Mitchell square, walked me home from the protest that went south, I remembered that community isn’t who has the most to say but the most to give. Every day my community makes me remember. When Seth, who asks for leftovers at my waitressing job on Marietta street, remembers my grandfather’s heart condition and asks me how he is doing, I remembered again that community isn’t who signs my paycheck. When Linda, the bus driver, waves me into a seat with $0.00 on my breeze card after I swear I’ll reload it at the train station, I remember what a gift it is to be trusted. Watching the tipsy, dancing girls at Arts center station platform laughing with open mouths reminds me that this is a gift, too. The young ladies in town for a concert, looking distressed, get that same small gift when I trust one of them with my jacket over her shimmery, shivering top. Looking at my MARTA App as we share the same warmth, I am their community, too. Don’t worry, I say, something will always be coming to get you home.