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By Grace Yu

HONORABLE MENTION

From the CHANNEL KINDNESS judge’s panel:

This perfectly encapsulates kindness from beginning to end, does a beautiful job setting the scene and telling the story, and has great rhythm and resolution. Wonderful job!

You do not expect
the kindness. It comes
in splashes, like an outpour
after a long drought. It was
Tuesday, and raining.
It often was. That night,
the sidewalks were leaping —
Manhattan’s scrubbed grass,
dry and parched, had found
space to breathe quietly
in the wet dirt. That night,
I inhaled the dampness,
the scent of petrichor, the mud
seeping into my thin shoes and
the rain dripping through
my soaked hood. I shivered
slowly under the dark, passing through
the windows of department stores,
lightheaded, wandering through
an array of bread, a stack
of thick winter coats. That night,
I remembered hunger. I found myself
pushing open the narrow door —
drifting in, the buttery pretzels
piled high on the counter. I had
only six dollars. The cashier sat
impassive, watching me count out
the faded dollar bills, sink
my hands into my pockets, feeling
for my last quarter. The smallest
pretzels, dipped in a shower of salt,
were almost seven dollars. Later, I headed
to the corner of the library, stuffed warm,
full of warm thoughts. The cashier,
eyes down, pushing the food over
the counter. This is enough.
Someone brought in change
earlier. And in my pockets,
a handful of bright coins, clinking gently
together.