Peaches on Park Benches.

By: Claire Kroening.

She left peaches on park benches. Spun yarn into scarves, and hung them on the winter-frosted rails. Sweetness ached on strangers' tongues. It was kindness without a fee, without empty-prayers and tents torn in two. Each week, the neighborhood grew— in homes built for the few, four walls of safety beneath summer-willed heatwaves. 

She left water in the pantries, in the libraries, in the small comforts of cotton-blanket forts by the river. No matter how small her actions seemed, she wasn't the only one.

We are all together in this life. Nothing is always black and white. Berries bloom on private lands, only to mold and fall before reaching trembling hands. We leave peaches on park benches, socks in empty fabric-drives. It was kindness without a fee, without empty-prayers and tents torn in two. It was neighbors supporting each other without the guise of greed.