Hidden Kindnesses
Such a tiny thing.
I noticed you approaching from behind,
signal on.
And I didn’t get over,
though I needed to turn
just past the light.
Perhaps the tiniest kindness ever.
One you wouldn’t be expected to notice.
But it made me stop.
How many hidden kindnesses,
small and large,
have I benefited from?
Hundreds?
Surely, thousands.
Or millions.
Survival has conditioned us
to notice the prowling tigers,
the preying hands,
the conniving opportunists,
the obnoxious drivers (also me).
Can we notice
the door held,
treats left in the break room,
gym equipment wiped down,
litter picked up,
lowered voices on the sidewalk at night,
a honk (or bird) withheld
even when deserved,
a trivial text
really saying
“Thinking of you,”
the daily service of our jobs,
the routine sacrifices of friends and family,
the simple look in the eye that says
I see you?
An echo that came to mind after this little moment of noticing:
I can’t believe how many years I lived without knowing the air you were breathing out was the air I was breathing in. Forgive me for not saying thank you before our lungs had reason to hide.— Andrea Gibson, “Note to the Stranger Six Feet Away”