It was still warm. The peach cobbler was a gift from our neighbors across the street and one house down.
“We’ve been meaning to bring you something since you moved in,” said one of the women. We exchanged names and family details, chatting at the front door, while I held the dog back by her collar.
Later, forks in hands, we asked ourselves if it was intended to be only two servings. How can you not eat the whole thing when it is still steaming? Kindness, fresh from the oven, walked across the street during a rain shower.
As I rinsed the pan, I thought about the other kindnesses shared with us since we moved. Fresh produce, homemade fig jam, staples for our pantry, help recycling moving supplies. It reminded me of a poem by Danusha Laméris.
Small Kindnesses
—by Danusha Laméris
I’ve been thinking about the way, when you walk
down a crowded aisle, people pull in their legs
to let you by. Or how strangers still say “bless you”
when someone sneezes, a leftover
from the Bubonic plague. “Don’t die,” we are saying.
And sometimes, when you spill lemons
from your grocery bag, someone else will help you
pick them up. Mostly, we don’t want to harm each other.
We want to be handed our cup of coffee hot,
and to say thank you to the person handing it. To smile
at them and for them to smile back. For the waitress
to call us honey when she sets down the bowl of clam chowder,
and for the driver in the red pick-up truck to let us pass.
We have so little of each other, now. So far
from tribe and fire. Only these brief moments of exchange.
What if they are the true dwelling of the holy, these
fleeting temples we make together when we say, “Here,
have my seat,” “Go ahead—you first,” “I like your hat.”
a writing prompt
Write about a small act of kindness.
