For Love and Goodness

By Peter Bowden


She never made headlines or led great marches. But everyone seemed to know her name. they’d say, she's the woman who baked extra pies just to give them away, who sat on porches with the grieving, who remembered the sound of your voice when you were a child. She never expected anything in return.

She kept a garden that bloomed longer than the season allowed. Sunflowers and marigolds even in late October. Children believed she whispered to the plants. Grown-ups knew better—but couldn’t explain the feeling that passed through them when she touched their arm or called them “dear.” There was a hush in her kindness, like a song barely heard but always remembered. A warmth that lingered, even as you walked away.

After she passed, someone left a candle on her porch. Then another. And another. Until her whole stoop glowed soft with light. No plaque was needed. No grand ceremony. Just the quiet, collective truth spoken in silence: she was known for her love and her goodness, and the world—had been better because she was in it.

Comments

Anonymous said…
Eloquent observance of a life well lived.
May 16, 2025 at 6:46 AM

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