(after Nikita Gill)

You are still the 8-year-old girl who
brightens at unexpected kindnesses—

the boy on the playground at recess
who offers his sweater after he leans

toward your small shell of an ear
to whisper that you have a spot on

the back of your dress, that maybe
you’d like to tie his sweater around

your waist to hide the whatever-it-is
you sat in or—oh, no!—came out of you.

Blushing, you accept, tie the cardigan’s
arms around you like a hug as he lopes

like a young deer toward the grassy field
to play catch with the other boys.

You have carried that particular kindness
with you for more than a half century,

the memory of his ruffled blond hair and
black-rimmed glasses, his name—Tom—

a boy who died much too young but
whose generosity lives in you,

grateful you.