Each Thursday, join me for my once a week practice, Through the Glass Backwards. As I commute into work, I take the light rail downtown. Even though I tend to get motion sick easily, I usually end up facing backwards, watching as the city slips by. These vignettes will be a 200 word glimpse of things I see as the world outside me lives its life, and I am fortunate enough to see.
As per normal, I was watching out the windows to see if there was something that caught my eye. And I heard singing. Not operatic, not trained, slightly off key. It sounded like a small child, singing quietly to himself. I couldn’t catch the words, but I recognized the melody as the childhood one that any words can fit into. I was taken back to sing-a-thons held in an upstairs playroom, me belting out Paula Abdul. We would be alone in the playroom – my other friends down the hall – and record our song of choice on a cassette tape. Later, we’d play each tape back with everyone in the room, and we’d vote. We’d decide who was the best and laugh along together.
I never won a sing-a-thon.
As I sat, I listened to the singing and I watched the trees, the Jones Falls that runs beside the rails, and the abandoned building with the construction awning that intrigues me to no end. I saw the billboard that serves as my mark that it’s nearly my stop. I got up, turned around, and saw a small boy sitting across and behind me, staring out of the window, seeing his own treasures.