An old man is sitting on a park bench. With a strip of white hair covering the sides of his shiny, bald, head. He’s wearing a lose v-neck sweater and tight brown slacks. Penny loafers secured smugly on his feet. To the right of him is a bag filled with breadcrumbs. Around him are dozens of birds, pigeon mostly. He slowly reaches into the bag and throws a piece of bread into the flock, he watches the many birds fight over the one piece of food. When finally one bird is victorious and the pecking and clawing has stopped, he releases another crumb of bread and the battle begins again. Over and over again he does this, staring at them with glassy black eyes, a dazed expression, and a wide toothless smile. In his mind he’s thinking how he and his wife used to do this every Sunday. How they would sit and feed the birds, how she would sometimes throw little pieces of bread at him, how he would laugh and throw them back, and how many hours of enjoyment this gave them. They would sit and watch the birds flap their wings and brandish their talons as if their very lives depended on the menial scraps that were thrown to them. The man enjoyed every second of this time he spent with his wife. But she’s gone now, taken away from him by the cruel twists of time and fate….by a sickness, that left the doctors baffled, left his wife lifeless, and left him as empty as his once filled bag of bread crumbs.