baker’s gift

 

In friendship,

it’s the extra call late at night,

the remembered laugh from years ago—

something unasked, freely given.

 

In service,

it’s the coffee shop adding a biscuit,

the mechanic wiping the corners of the window

without a word,

small touches we barely notice,

yet carry home.

 

In art,

it’s the brushstroke tucked into the corner,

a detail only the painter knows is there.

It’s the verse that wasn’t needed,

but stayed anyway.

 

In learning,

it’s the teacher who lingers after the bell—

a moment longer,

just to see you understand.

 

In kindness,

it’s the smile, the patient pause,

when the world might pass someone by.

 

In care,

it’s choosing the second blanket on a cold night,

the last slice saved for someone else,

the small, quiet gifts

that never ask for thanks.

 

A baker’s dozen

is more than thirteen.

It’s the measure of giving

without counting.

 

 

 

 

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