I saw her on 21st Avenue one Sunday morning. She wore a dark shroud,
wrapping her body in its entirety; a miracle it didn’t catch in her spokes.
She road on the sidewalk in an attempt to block my path. I would have none of it,
side stepping her, indignantly walking onto the grass. I was stubborn: didn’t want to hear the music she played from her boom box, a tune for which I was familiar.
She appeared day after day wearing the same shroud, playing same song
from her boom box tied to the back of her bike. Until one day she wouldn’t
let me pass. She stopped in front of me, and revealed a pink garb
beneath the layers of black. A face so gentle, motherly.
I asked her, “Why do you play this music?”
She smiled and moved her fingers, “It is for you.”
“But why would you play music if you cannot hear?” I asked, puzzled.
“Because it is your song. It is for you to hear. I play it for you.”
My messenger fades in the morning light. What haven’t I heard?