My father and I

My father was a musician. Folk. Rock. Blues. He lived and breathed music, he came alive when his fingers plucked those guitar strings, when his lips brushed that buzzing microphone. He performed in bars, restaurants, at some friends' weddings.

He worked as a reporter then, but he hated every minute of it. Whenever I ask him about it, his eyes go empty for moment. Then he says something along the lines of "I was tired of writing about other people's' lives." So he quit. And now he's a street musician.

Sometimes business is alright, sometimes it rains and the gaudy yellow and red striped umbrella sags, and water drips onto his hat brim. Sometimes the beast in my stomach roars, clawing at my heart, destroying me from the inside. I double over until the hunger subsides into a dull ache.

Sometimes he comes back to our bench with a smile on his face and a cigar in his mouth, beaming, gesturing wide and proclaiming "Isn't it a beautiful day to be alive?"

And I'll laugh and he'll swoop me up in his arms and twirl around. We have a picture, stashed in my patched pocket. Some street photographer snapped it one autumn and gave it to us for free. When my father searched his ratty pockets for something to give in return, the woman refused. "Take it." She said. "Take it and always remember that the beauty of your love is a beauty to others as well."

In the picture I am in his arms, my legs kicking out wide as he swings me around. I am a blur of purple in my favorite corduroy overalls. My cropped red hair flares out like a flame, a pale flash of my face barely visible, owl-like eyes wide with delight, laughing. My father is tall, tall and brown in his tattered jacket, his own shock of red hair tousled. His hat is pushed back on his forehead, the brim tilted. His mouth is open, shoulders back. Laughing. The trees behind us are exploding with color, countless orange, yellow, green sparks dancing on their dull branches.

My shoes are worn, the soles thin and smooth, from the walk to the bridge. The path we walk twice every day. In the evening we trek under the shelter of the towering structure that shelters us from the world. From the smog, from the invisible stars. We curl up on the ratty blanket until the sun breaks over the spires of the Brooklyn Bridge. Then we trudge back to our bench, lugging the guitars. We sit side by side and play, sing. He says my voice is high and sweet like an angel's. I tell him that his would be too if he didn't smoke as much. He always laughs.

The best day I can remember is when my father brought back a guitar. The finishing was chipped and worn, and the strings were thin. But it was tuned, and he sat on our bench with me hugging his knee and he played. He played and he sang. His voice was raspy, like he'd smoked one too many cigars, but it resonated with a vulnerability and sweetness, like he was remembering a time when things were better. I clutched his knee, clad in patched brown pants, and gazed at him like he was the brightest thing in the sky.

When he finished I clapped, and he took a mock bow. He smiled, and his eyes were crinkled at the corners like the feet of the pigeons that wander the cobblestones. He relaxed against the bench and sighed deep, like he had been holding himself up all day, and just now were his bones settling. When he saw the tears brimming in my eyes, he gathered my seven-year-old self into his arms, and I curled against the guitar, against his chest. He smelled like cigar smoke and licorice.

"What is it, lass?"

"Daddy, it's so beautiful. I didn't know anything could sound so good."

"Sweet, anything can sound good if you listen hard enough." His hand stroked my hair, curled a loose strand behind my ear. "Do you want to try?"

We don't have the best life, my father and I, but we get by. We have our music, we have each other. And even though a park bench can be cold and sharp, and on a bad day the slats dig into my shoulder blades, there's no place I'd rather be.

Some days when I strum and sing people stop and listen. Sometimes they smile, sometimes the cry, sometimes they just stand. Sometimes they drop a dollar or two onto the green metal of the bench beside me, sometimes they move on their way with nothing more than a quirk of their lips. Sometimes they sit beside me. One man I remember placed his hand on my shoulder and looked at me hard, like he searching for something in my eyes. All he said was

"Sometimes all you can do is play. Play and sing until the clouds sing back."

My father and I don't have the best life, but we have the trees behind us and the world before us, and there is nothing to stop us from being happy. We shake our fists at the sky and laugh. As we sit side by side on our chipped green bench, we dare to smile.