Left Overs

Left Overs

Christmas was over. The house was quiet, heavy with the kind of silence that comes after too much has been felt. Plates were stacked in the sink, half-empty bowls left where they had been used, crumbs scattered across the table. The tree leaned slightly to one side, its needles drifting slowly to the floor.

I gathered the leftovers. Bread that had broken instead of tearing, small pieces of meat and pie that no one wanted anymore. Not enough to save for later, too much to throw away. I carried the bowl outside, the cold air brushing my cheeks as the birds appeared on the fence.

They waited, patient and quiet, heads tilted as if they understood. I scattered the food across the grass, and they stepped forward carefully, pecking at the scraps. Some were braver than others, hopping closer to take what was offered without fear.

I watched them eat, small pieces disappearing quickly, and for a moment, the garden felt alive again. The leftover food, unwanted by people, became everything to them. They did not ask where it came from, or why it had been left behind. They only knew it was there, and they needed it.

When they flew away, the garden went still again. Nothing had been wasted. Nothing had been ignored. And somehow, in that quiet, the weight of Christmas lifted. What was left over, what had seemed too small, too insignificant, had found its place. Do you feed the Birds ?