Crumbs

Grandpa says don’t throw it too fast.
The birds have rules.

I hold the bread tight in my fist. It’s soft and a little sticky. The birds walk like they own the ground. One looks at me with one eye, then the other. I think it knows I’m new.

Grandpa is bending down. He smells like outside and old paper. He’s smiling but not with his mouth — with the quiet part of his face. Mama is there too, but she’s watching me, not the birds.

I drop a crumb.

Nothing happens.

Then everything happens.

Feet move. Wings twitch. A bird hops closer and my heart jumps like it might fly out too. I laugh but I try not to be loud. Loud scares things away.

Another crumb.
Closer this time.

The birds eat like they are in a hurry but also not. One takes a piece and runs like it stole something important. I think maybe it did.

I like that they trust my hands. I like that they don’t know my name but they still come. Grandpa says this is called feeding the birds, but I think it’s more like meeting them.

When the bread is gone, they stay a little longer.
So do I.

Word count: 198

— Maggie
The Afterlove Voice 💫