. . . too kind . . .
By John Herlihy

Of my father, some said he was too kind.
I thought nothing of it; it slipped my mind.
Little children never think that life is unfair.
They go about their business being unaware.
My father’s kindness made him who he was.
He always had a gentle touch for all he does.

He forgave every slight that came his way.
No insult stirred him from what people say.
He seemed to take his days one at a time.
Angry if justified, but he never did whine.
He paid little attention to the empty word.
He took note of the value of what he heard.

At work he found a wallet tied with string.
He thought about where the wallet to bring.
Downstairs an office for the lost and found.
He looked at the cash, with no one around.
‘Stuff the cash into a pocket’ crossed his mind;
But he couldn’t overcome the urge to be kind.

“You decide,” his mind said and decide he did,
As if to look in a trash can only to close the lid.
The lost property office perhaps the best space,
What was lost soon returned to its rightful place.
The voice inside never wavering, strong and firm.
If this was being “too kind”, it was not his concern.

The lady looked surprised as he opened the door.
He said to her: “It was just lying there on the floor.”
“Not many people would give back this much money.”
“Not giving it back,” he replied, “would seem funny.”
“You are a decent man,” she said, “and very kind.”
Perhaps, he thought, so long as I am not too kind.