08/31/2025
You see that bench over there? That’s Frank’s bench.
Rain or shine. Tuesday or Thursday. Doesn’t matter.
Frank shows up — always with that same wool coat, that squeaky plastic bag of crumbs, and a heart big enough to feed the whole damn flock.
Now don’t get it twisted — I know what y’all say.
“Stop feeding the pigeons!”
“Y’all just bring rats!”
“Ew, they p**p everywhere!”
(Okay, fair… but that’s not the point.)
Frank? Frank’s different.
He ain’t just feeding us. He’s talking to us.
Telling us about his wife, rest her soul.
About how she used to sit right here, knitting while he fed “the girls” — that’s what he called us pigeons.
And we listened. Every word.
Because that’s what family does.
Yeah, yeah, technically, this ain’t legal.
And maybe you think we’re just greedy little sky rats.
But when Frank looks down at me and I look up at him?
That’s real.
That’s history. That’s routine. That’s comfort.
That’s love — feathered, messy, beautiful love.
And I know...
I know it ain’t good for us to live off bagels and broken chips.
But we never asked, did we?
Like any bad habit, if you hand it out, we’ll take it.
Because we miss you, Frank.
We wait for you.
Even when your bench gets cold.
So go ahead. Shake your heads.
But don’t judge a man by his breadcrumbs.
Judge him by who he keeps warm with them.
This one’s for Frank —
Feeder of pigeons, keeper of secrets, holder of hearts.
– Signed, The Shady Bird.
(P.S. I’m watching your sandwich, Stephanie. Don’t test me.)
