This day was my adventure day. I can’t remember exactly why I chose this time. I recall going into the enclosed sidewalk mall and seeing the stairs that led to a floor I was certain would be part of my journey. Of course, being directionally challenged, I had to ask someone. They directed me to through the heavy double safety doors, to the arrows that pointed the way across a covered parking garage. When I entered another heated walkway, I heard a low, quiet voice singing. I spotted the person leaning against the window, gazing west and singing mournfully. My heart ached at the sound. The language was not one I understood. I passed by without invading his thoughts or space.
Being a story-teller, I believed he was looking westward toward the land of his birth and possibly a family or a special someone he had left behind. Perhaps even a war-torn country. We are a city of newcomers. They must miss their home country. It felt as if this man ached for someone he didn’t have with him.
Or he could have been waiting for the bus. Perhaps this day, I was projecting my feelings onto him and made assumptions that had nothing to do with him at all. That too is part of storytelling. I’m choosing to believe the first, it is a better story.