Weblog entry:
- But we listened, every one.
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An elderly man stands by himself, slouched slightly against the glass wall of the bus shelter. After a moment, he rights himself, and begins singing silently under his breath. We all make an effort not to look at him, but yearn to hear him sing softly to us in a gravelly patois — a deep, raspy not-quite-French that we cannot see, but strain to hear. Slowly, the singer’s voice gains confidence, volume — his feet shuffle timidly, as though the words required a dance the body barely remembers. His voice rolls across the pavement in a language none of us recognize, skipping octaves with a fluidity and nimbleness that simultaneously belies his age and awes his listeners. Ashamed, we focus more intently on our coffee mugs, our newspapers, our cellphones, our prospects of ten o’clock meetings; he, however, forgets himself in a way that the rest of us cannot, and we are poorer for it.
The bus arrives, and we board.
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