The crowd that waited knew not what to expect …

Outside it was cold. Inside – a slight draft tickled the observer’s noses like a feather floating on a bare leg. Anticipation remained  even though the performance risked cancellation due to the unplanned tardiness on the part of the blonde – haired singer.

As the crowd thinned, thickened and thinned once more – the petite performer arrived. A sigh of relief welcomed her with open – hesitant approval.

She set her guitar case upon the hard, cold ‘stage’. Her eyes – searching the crowd like a lost child. A slight smile appeared on her weathered face. Her brow dipped in concern. It was now or never …

The young woman removed her coat. A garment complete with holes as large as the silver dollar her Father had once given her. A silver dollar she carried carefully everywhere she went.

Following a quick glance of nervousness, the pixie – like singer and songwriter,  carefully yet elegantly opened the casket which held her prize possession. A guitar. Once more – a gift from a Father that had died too young.

Lifting the instrument that weighed a little more than she – it was quickly slung over her slight shoulders. Atop a frame that carried too many burdens for a woman her age. The strap, fastened the instrument in  place. It was time to face the music …

In a voice desperate for strength and with eyes so soft – the young woman introduced the first song;

“This was written for my Mother …” She whispered. ” She died giving birth to me and this is what I would have said to her if I  had the chance …”

Her tiny fingers, wrinkled like that of an old man – discovered the chords. An acoustic outpouring of affection careened of the walls. A tunnel – not quite meant for a musical performance of any kind, evolved into a concert hall. The most beautiful theater in the world as the young lady‘s words arrived like star dust on a darkened evening.

Eyes ripe with criticism turned to water from within the crowd. Mouths of silence stood open in surprise and disbelief. An ovation fit for kings engulfed the area like flames on a wooden shack. The musician seemed pleased.

When the young woman walked home that evening, the  money she had collected from her guitar case at the Subway  station – almost too heavy for her slight frame.

She smiled as the cold winter wind slapped her face with pellets made of ice …