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Show Throwing the Bread Butch and Fenn Stories 92 Mrs. Fenn's back. Finally, I draw out of bed, dress, and sneak out of my house. I move down the dark streets at a walk-run, avoiding the bright spills of light from the street lamps, to the park. The whole world is asleep or gone somewhere else; it is as if there is a famine. The park is black. It is late, so late that the tennis court lights are out, and there is no moon, only the bright crumbs of stars thrown around the sky. I find the fence with my hands and jump over onto the playing field. It seems huge in the dark, and I walk in circles for a moment amid the glowing bits of bread, expecting to bump into something. I stand still and squint down, and finally, still scared, I kneel and pick up a crust of bread. This summer is being hard on me. I have thrown a loaf of bread, and I spend that night on my knees in dirt and grass, with new care, pinching crumbs from this old world. |