A Simplicity of Kindness

by Mary Ann Taylor, on kindness

Deaf, nearly, she cannot hear the light taps at the door.

(She’d taught him: Always knock.)

He comes in, believes her asleep.

(Yet she sees him, eyes nearly closed.)

He turns off the bedside lamp.

(Her sad thing: a single hand switching on darkness

Night after night.)

He leaves and closes the door, holding the knob for silent’s sake.

(She wishes she’d taught him that, awakened it at least.)