Leftovers

Colored lights were strung through the trees overhanging the patio of the small Mexican restaurant and the sound of the blues cut sharply through the crisp, clear night. The tables were littered with the remains of spicy dinners and unfinished pitchers of bloody marys - it was a night for sweaters and light jackets and on the sidewalk watching was an old, black man in a faded baseball cap, clutching a pile of blankets to his chest. The harmonica began a solo of an old Jimmy Reed tune and the old man grinned widely. Someone called to him to come on in and he came immediately, settling himself and his blankets at a table a foot or so from the band, his face alive with delight at the music, his hands and feet keeping the beat. During the break he asked to sit in and was welcomed.

His scratchy voice was behind the vocals and he only knew bits and pieces of the lyrics but he was transformed to be a part of the music and everyone tolerated the fact that he clearly hadn't bathed in days or weeks.

Music speaks to us all, moves us all, cares not for our station in life or our circumstances. Music reaches us all equally and differently. It revives memories, it heals, it brings us together and often keeps us together. Music can build bridges and through it we can find common ground.

While the band broke down and packed up, their audience said their goodnights and began drifting toward the parking lot. We were all going in different directions, it seemed, but all had shared the music. The old black man gathered his blankets and produced a plastic bag from one of his pockets into which he scraped off the remains of the dinners and then emptied all the leftover nacho chips into another pocket. Waving and shouting goodbye, he made his way down the sidewalk toward a poor section of town, leaving a trail of chips like breadcrumbs behind him. I watched him walk away and though I smiled, I felt a sadness for him.