I was playing my flute on the corner of Clover and Pine, one of those busy intersections where cars line up at the light, their drivers glancing in every direction except mine, pretending they don’t see me. It was a chilly, overcast day, the sky hanging low with gray clouds that threatened rain at any moment. The wind cut through my thin coat, and I pressed my instrument tighter to my lips, letting the melody carry me somewhere else in my mind.
My name is Morgan. I’m fifty-three, and I’ve been living on the streets for almost eight years now. It started with losing my apartment after a work accident cost me my mobility and eventually my job. The details get messy, but basically, I couldn’t cover my bills, I had no family left to turn to, and so I ended up in a cramped shelter. When even that shelter lost its funding, I found myself sleeping under the old railway bridge at the edge of town.
Yes, I’m homeless. And yes, I’m disabled. I have a degenerative condition in my spine and hips that makes every movement an exercise in pain management. At first, I tried to remain hopeful that the system would help me out, but it turned out social services had too many people to handle. My appointment times got pushed, phone calls unreturned. I guess I fell through the cracks.
Somehow, I didn’t let bitterness consume me. I had one thing to cling to: my flute. I’ve played since I was ten. My father gave me the flute as a birthday present, telling me that music was the language of hope. And that’s what I do. I cling to hope, busking at street corners. Usually, passersby spare me a glance. Some drop a coin or two into the battered hat I lay on the pavement. Often, they walk by quickly, as if afraid to get too close.
That day was shaping up to be another one of those days: me, my flute, a handful of coins, a stiff wind, and a strange mixture of exhaustion and acceptance in my chest. Around noon, I paused to rest my lips and catch my breath. My back was throbbing, and I tucked the flute under my coat for warmth. That’s when a small voice called out from behind me.
“Hey, mister.”
