He sat at the old upright, drenched in sun, on a too-warm January day, just below the Coney Island Museum. The fractured story of a place hummed above him. He played from memory, just as we did, running our fingers along the slide of banister, drumming the floorboards, peering into the coin-operated telescope of time.
Maybe I have an urge to play an instrument I can not fit in my apartment. Maybe I wish I was not at work but on Coney Island’s beaches or riding the rickety Cyclone. I don’t know. But I think of him today.