by Laurita Miller
They sat on the bench in companionable silence, each holding a small white bag, a gift for the visitors gathering on the snow around them. He gently shook the package, scattering the yellow bits in a wide arc, then poured some into his large calloused hand and flung them to the brown dappled bodies bobbing near the shore. She dipped her fingers, frail and trembling, into the bag, holding tiny portions in her fingertips to be rationed among those brave enough to approach. Her glove slipped to the ground and he bent to retrieve it, placing it between them with a gentle pat. The evening shadows emerged, the packages emptied, the cold settled. They stood and nodded to each other – a genial bow of the head, a graceful tilt – and then parted, walking alone toward dark and quiet houses.
Laurita Miller enjoys writing and walking through revolving doors. (Click here to make a donation to Laurita, half of which will support 6S.)