The Opera House is tan – not white, tan. But if you take a picture point blank, the color still gleams a brighter white than the shiniest smile. The harbor bridge to the left arcs gracefully over the water, and I shake my head to think we were at the top of it only two hours again. I recline in my chair and breathe in the fresh country air of the downtown harbor. I can’t get over the idea of clean air in such an expansive city! My breathing is deep and filling, refreshing. My friends are discussing where to go, what to do next. I don’t have much preference – I’m enjoying my surroundings far too much to think of moving. I tilt my head as I hear a familiar yet strange sound. The strumming of the guitar seems out of place, seems too homey to be in the middle of the port. I turn towards the sound and see a boy, probably around the age of 12, picking a familiar tune out on his six-string. The song is old, nameless to me, but I am sure it is one of the ones my father used to play on quiet nights at home. I lose myself in the image of the boy – the black coat, the jeans, the case open for any change to drop in. I wonder how long he has done this, if his playing arose from necessity or simply the desire to share his passion, his gift. I realize I am staring, and decide to cover myself with a tourist-y picture. As my camera clicks, the boy looks up. The beauty, the peace, the music, the air are now forever mine to keep. His clear eyes penetrate my photograph, and I cannot help but lose myself in the beauty of the moment.
0 comments:
Post a Comment