It’s a sad sound one can’t help but to slow down for.
It makes me think of September 11th and the many funerals held on my corner for dozens of police and firemen. I listened to that sound for days till it became a normal one woven into all I’ve grown used to.
The first time hearing the bagpiper, I was running up the hill that takes me back to the East Side. I stopped to clap and in mid wail, he humbly bowed.
I loved how it kept me company growing fainter and fainter as I ran yearning to turn back to hear it again at its fullest, my heart humming along remembering all that’s poignant.
I often wonder what drives him to play at that early hour. Is it preparation for a funeral, or sheer pleasure knowing he can produce such a song.
He’s cute…30ish in jeans and a jacket, his hair blowing freely in the crisp breeze. Part of me wants to learn more about him…is he American, Scottish…does he own a kilt?
I haven’t though, enjoying the mystery of his sheer presence.
Sometimes it’s better not to know everything filling in the blanks yourself. I’ve decided he must be a happy boy blissfully in love with his music.
Why else would he play at dawn high on a rock in Central Park for those lucky enough to hear him.