Small things

Sometimes, love looks like small things.
—Former U.S. Poet Laureate Tracy K. Smith

Like bringing the half gallon of milk,
though he didn’t ask for it because
you knew he’d otherwise have to dampen
tomorrow’s cereal with water.

Like him emailing the photos he took of you
making split pea soup to your mother
because it was her favorite and because
she—no cook herself—knew that you’d
inherited her preference for reading
over doing much of anything
in a kitchen.

Like the niece-in-law texting photos
of your mother’s lilac in bloom
a few months after her death,
perhaps returned as the butterfly
resting on all that purple.

Like your solo walk home carrying
your leftover burrito in a brown box
after breakfast with a friend,
and offering it to the woman sitting
on the curb who asked for a dollar,
then grabbed the box like a ring buoy,
opened it and, without a word,
took a big bite, grinning gratitude
that you didn’t require.

Love rests in the small things,
rarely in the big gestures—
driving a sister to the doctor,
calling the homebound relative,
feeding the neighbor’s cat who
shows up mornings on your porch
because, though he gets fed at home,
it’s more fun to eat out.

Like the poem that arrives in your
in-box with the note from the poet
reminding you that the smallest
kindnesses are proof that we’re here,
paying attention, that we care.

And oh, how others,
if we have eyes to see,
so care for us, too.

Baby roses / Photo: Jan Haag