I laughed when I first heard a fallen angel plays the guitar at the second reservoir on Mt. Tabor. I chocked it up to all the other inane bullshit that’s said after a particularly loose happy hour.
Until the day I hit the 67th stair up to the reservoir— heart pumping in my ears— and then I heard it. The rapid staccato of swift fingers teasing at the strings.

I labored for air. One run a week isn’t enough. And as I sucked wind like an open window dog, I watched a nondescript man produce magic in broad daylight— rather, grey light. He only appears on overcast afternoons.
His case laid open for coins— no bills seemed to reside there.
I tried to catch his eye— but he only ever looked at his instrument. Eyes lost to an unearthly attention.

I began to ran more— always up to the reservoirs. I’d even wait to start putting my shoes on until the clouds rolled in. I didn’t want to lose my chance to the sunshine.
Each time brought a new tune. His songs made you scrunch your eyes as you tried to remember where you’ve heard them before. But as soon as I’d leave, they’d slip away like the last details of a dream.

I wanted to talk about him with my friends— but I felt embarrassed. I had seen him at least ten times, but I was as helpful as a blind man to a sketch artist in trying to describe him. I couldn’t remember what he looked like— just that he was.

You’ll understand when you go. You’ll understand why he didn’t fall all the way down. An almost invisible penance— playing for the absorbed that hardly hear themselves.

I bought a guitar. One of those cheap online ones— where the strings are too heavy and the tubing knobs too loose. I felt foolish whenever I plucked the strings when someone else was home. But when they left? I’d find the smallest corner of confidence and back myself in until I heard a note. The note. The one you play and you try to exist within.

I’d run and pluck. Run and pluck. Trying to solve the Rubik’s cube of a person I couldn’t see the colors of.

In the brief moments of bliss where I’d stretch a perfect note into the intangible— I understood.
After that I didn’t see the angel again.
but on long nights when I had the home to myself— I’d hear the melodies float through my head— reaching out like an old friend for a long awaited dinner.

If you hear the fallen angel play on a cloudy day— stop awhile.