seeks a new identity.
I round a corner and lean against the dirty concrete wall, glad
of the shelter. I keep looking down at the floor and suddenly
another pair of shoes comes into my view. They are old, worn
brown boots, laces tied with messy bows and blue striped
socks. I raise my gaze up a little, over purple corduroy
trousers, a huge baggy red jumper, a torn white scarf and
finally a friendly, bearded face. The man has a set of twinkling
blue eyes and a slightly crooked nose, his beard is rusty
orange and his mouth curves into a sort of wry smile. He nods
at me and takes off a small case that was slung over his
shoulder.
Carefully, with the love of a father to his child, he takes out an
instrument, a ukulele. He lays the polished yet wrinkled case
out on the ground and begins to tune it, plucking finely at the
strings. I watch, hardly daring to lift my eyes above his hands,
wanting to look at his face, but not having the guts.
He stops and looks at me from out of the corner of his eye. I
look down immediately and hear him chuckle quietly. I think
about moving on, but somewhere in my heart I like him, I like
his company and I wonder if he likes mine.
Then he begins to play and I can't believe I ever considered
leaving. Some of his songs are woeful and some are cheerful.
He rouses my heart and lets it drop. I recognise none of the
songs, I guess they must be his own. I sit there for hours,
silently listening. I think I know him the best I've known any
other person in my life. I know how he struggles, how he finds
hope, how he spreads light to others and how his music is his
best friend, how he loved a girl and let her go. And we've