A humming word

An old man sat at a coffee shop by a long table in Milwaukee. A bagel and a cup of coffee would keep him company.     Every Sunday, he’d occupy the same chair. He’d draw a stroke here. A stroke there.   Lakes from his memory. He’d sketch them, keenly.   One Sunday, I sat beside him I scribbled on my scribbling pad. And he nodded, lifting his hat.   Since then, we’d sit together every Sunday morning Drawing and writing, in silence, till evening And we’d head our own way. Only to meet the next Sunday.      

Mornings, when the city is dressed in sunshine, and people scamper -- holding on to steering wheels, or purses or briefcases, or yesterday. Amidst these blurry faces, is his smile as bright as the summer sun that enters balconies to water potted plants. headphones on, and bobbing his head to music, he hums and relishes every moment. Illustration: Raaga katta