-Autumn Without Family-

He sat, or rather, the bench held him while he curled like paint flakes and watched for the bus. Breath percolated out of his nose as if unsure. Short motes, and long ice trails. He briefly adjusted his woolmitts from folded to crossed with elbows. But the real cold was in the set of his face.  That sat stronger than the rest of him, or even the bench. Dignity freshly siphoned from his shoulders. His grey pant-legs quaked above his shoes. Shivering shins tapping out an argument between being old and being free. Where he was going was not home. And where he left was just as empty. The bus curchunked, and swung its grimeglass doors. There was a grateful air in the way it swallowed him. 00 Be the 1st to vote.Share...

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