A woman with scraggly red hair approaches me at the bus stop near the corner of Washington and Warren streets in Syracuse. She’s dressed in a thin flannel shirt, sweatpants, and sneakers. In a soft voice, she asks, “Do you have a cigarette and a dollar?”

“What?” I ask. I could barely hear her.

“Do you have a cigarette and a dollar?” she repeats.

I don’t smoke, and although I had some dollars in my wallet, I said, “No.”

I didn’t want to remove my gloves because of the cold, and I need the singles for bus fare.

“God bless you, honey,” she said, then walked toward the edge of the curb, paused to look around, and crossed the street, shuffling ahead of the traffic that had the right of way.

I wanted to cross the intersection, chase after her, yank out my wallet, and give her a dollar, but my feet remained planted on the sidewalk as guilt and shame washed over me.

At that moment, selfishness prevailed over compassion. I ignored the woman’s plight and rejected an opportunity to offer kindness to another human being.

And while I can’t help the woman now, I hope awareness about my failure means I will do better the next time someone asks me for assistance.