Soup

 

 

The old man hunched over his soup. His fork clacked against the bowl, creating a ringing sound. Steam wilted his lashes and brow hairs, mashed and matted them together. Salt from his face, melted and rolled down his wrinkles — tears of gratitude. He heaved with his chest and his heart, as each droplet wetted the fissures, cracks and valleys of his lips. Parched you see. It burned, so painful. The same way a canyon groans and echoes after a long drought, as torrents of water crash throughout. And life begins again.

 

image by: Stefan 1981

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