They fill the air with music, these old practiced hands. It’s music that floats gently above the din of the busy market. It swirls overhead as the old man smiles. He’s been on that bench every weekend I can remember, sharing his musical gift. He laughs while children dance, his fingers dancing with them.
Joy comes not just from his music but from the bright colors in his shirt. From the jaunty cap perched on his head. And from the twinkle and shine in his eyes. Moments will forever be filled with music from old practiced hands.