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 There's this lady I see on the streets all the time, who sells things she has painted. Well, not quite painted but rather, dotted with paint. The style is not as moving as Jackson Pollock but not quite pointillist. It's somewhere in between, kind of mesmerizing, kind of intriguing. Everything she owns is dotted in paint, including her coat, hat and shoes. I've seen her set up her stand on sidewalks here and there. Some approach her, some steal a quick glance, but most keep walking. The other night, I was walking that long walk underground from Times Square to Port Authority. I used to dislike that walk because of the stairs and that tunnel where everything feels stuffy. But I've grown to like it, in a weird way. I walked past the usual "THINK JESUS" tables that are set up by the 7 train. That night, I found three people arguing about God and religion with the one man waving pamphlets, trying to convince them. I slowed down a bit, trying to catch some of the conversation but it was just raised voices and frustration. I kind of smiled to myself and shook my head. I picked up my pace as I headed up that incline into the tunnel walkway. That's when I heard the most beautiful voice. It took my breath away. The operatic singing echoed up and down the tunnel. I kept searching for the person as I walked, and then I found her. It was her. It was the dotted paint lady. She was just standing there, holding an empty Starbucks cup, slowly rocking back and forth on her feet, singing. I couldn't get over how beautiful her voice was. She looked nervous, as if the sound coming from her wasn't normal. The sides of my mouth turned up involuntarily in recognition. I took all the change from my pockets and poured it into her cup. She paused, nodded shyly and continued to sing. In that brief moment, I wondered why she didn't sing outside, why she didn't sing more often, why no one noticed her. And then I wondered if she had sung all her life, if she sang in a choir as a child, if she made her parents smile on a bad day with that voice. As I neared the end of the tunnel, I paused and listened, as her voice drifted in and out of the masses and roars of the trains. |
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Hi, my name is Amy. Be well, and say hello!
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I love moments like these. I sometimes feel that I forget that the people I pass by each day have a history--that they have talents and parents--until something like this happens.
Thanks for sharing.
This is beautiful.