The Good Doctor

I once saw a man in New York. He was sitting on the sidewalk playing a rotten looking guitar and gazing at a forgotten cigarette that was still smoking on the cold pavement. I walked with my parents; we were shopping for worthless knick-knacks to bring back for friends or relatives. I looked up at my parents, whose hearts were loaded down with money, confusion, and obligation. And whose arms were loaded down with shopping bags. I looked down to the man, whose eyes were wise but light with a freedom I had not expected. He looked back at me, and squinting in the sun, he smiled brilliantly. The kind of smile that pierces through whatever you’re thinking and time stands still as your heart bursts and you smile back. You don’t get many of those in a lifetime, especially in New York.