There is an old man who lives on my street. He is tall, and black, and he has a scrubby grey beard. He often opens his door as people go past and looks at them, leaning on the door frame. You can usually hear music playing. He is often singing under his breath.
Tonight I could hear him singing outside; I went to my window, and there he was, walking very slowly down the street with his cane, singing loudly in a deep bass voice. He seemed to be singing the blues- I couldn’t hear the words very well at first. But then I heard this:
I’m so lonely, I’m so weary. Oh don’t mind what people say about you, you got to go look your own way.
I thought how beautiful and sad it was; he was probably making it up, just an old man singing his own sadness. He got to the end of the street, turned to walk back up to his house, and, taking a deep breath, belted out:
Don’t cry for me Argentina! You know, the truth is, I never left you!