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.