A Bench by the Fire

Someone shifted along the bench and patted the free end, and so I sat, one stranger among several, all of us holding our hands toward the same barrel. Beside me a young woman wore her flag like a blanket, the way you wear something that is both symbol and actually warm.

Nobody asked who I was. At a fire, in December, provenance is waived; the currency is presence. I contributed silence in an accent nobody heard and was accepted at full rate.

I keep learning this on every cold square of the former union: the fastest route past history is a shared heat source. Diplomats should work in mittens, around barrels.