The Milk of Human Kindness
It’s 7am, and they’re already waiting outside. One by one, they shuffle in. The oldest uses a walker, the youngest a wheelchair. There isn’t much talk; they’re all tired. They line up in front of the counter. Help themselves to coffee, while I hand out juice, sandwiches, muffins. Soft food only—they’re all missing teeth. Some say thank you, others don’t. Doesn’t bother me. I know how bitter charity can taste.hand-me-downs . . .
mother's eyes
father's scars