Many years ago, I was headed to a small theater not too far from home to see a movie — and what the movie was I don’t even vaguely remember. In the parking lot, there was a man asking for food, money, or any sort of handout. He was probably not much older than me at the time and seemed sincere and non-threating.

I quickly chose not to help — mostly out of habit — and walked by without much of an acknowledgment. But for some reason this interaction stuck with me over the next two hours while I watched some forgettable movie in a darkened theater. So, I decided that if this man was still there when I left, that I would help him with some food or prepared meal from a grocery store nearby in the same shopping center.

To my disappointment, he wasn’t anywhere to be found in the parking lot. I probably looked around for a couple of minutes, and expected it to be forgotten like so many other similar situations.

I try not to live my life with regret, but I really haven’t been able to shake this small failure of kindness in the years since. I return to this memory and wonder why I couldn’t be bothered to do something, anything.

In May 2013, Texas-born writer George Saunders delivered the commencement address at Syracuse University — where he teaches creative writing — and shared a related anecdote about his own failure of kindness:

I’d say, as a goal in life, you could do worse than: Try to be kinder.

In seventh grade, this new kid joined our class. In the interest of confidentiality, her name will be “ELLEN.” ELLEN was small, shy. She wore these blue cat’s-eye glasses that, at the time, only old ladies wore. When nervous, which was pretty much always, she had a habit of taking a strand of hair into her mouth and chewing on it.

So she came to our school and our neighborhood, and was mostly ignored, occasionally teased (“Your hair taste good?” — that sort of thing). I could see this hurt her. I still remember the way she’d look after such an insult: eyes cast down, a little gut-kicked, as if, having just been reminded of her place in things, she was trying, as much as possible, to disappear. After awhile she’d drift away, hair-strand still in her mouth. At home, I imagined, after school, her mother would say, you know: “How was your day, sweetie?” and she’d say, “Oh, fine.” And her mother would say, “Making any friends?” and she’d go, “Sure, lots.”

Sometimes I’d see her hanging around alone in her front yard, as if afraid to leave it.

And then — they moved. That was it. No tragedy, no big final hazing.

One day she was there, next day she wasn’t.

End of story.

Now, why do I regret that? Why, forty-two years later, am I still thinking about it? Relative to most of the other kids, I was actually pretty nice to her. I never said an unkind word to her. In fact, I sometimes even (mildly) defended her.

But still. It bothers me.

So here’s something I know to be true, although it’s a little corny, and I don’t quite know what to do with it:

What I regret most in my life are failures of kindness.

Those moments when another human being was there, in front of me, suffering, and I responded … sensibly. Reservedly. Mildly.

Or, to look at it from the other end of the telescope: Who, in your life, do you remember most fondly, with the most undeniable feelings of warmth?

Those who were kindest to you, I bet.

But kindness, it turns out, is hard — it starts out all rainbows and puppy dogs, and expands to include . . . well, everything.

The entire wonderful speech was adapted and published in his book, Congratulations, by the way: Some Thoughts on Kindness.

But I think was sums it up best for me is a simple line from the beautiful, illustrated book The Boy, the Mole, the Fox and the Horse by Charlie Mackesy: “Nothing beats kindness,’ said the horse. ‘It sits quietly beyond all things.”

Nothing beats kindness.