we met at the met

when the old man took his place on stage and began to play all the room fell silent.  it was the blues – he played alongside a young man – their two pianos angled inwards. they played off of one another – with one another – i wondered who they were.  i looked at the old man, i was sucked right in.  his white hair – his thick horn rimmed glasses – his silver rings : one on each finger – his seemingly frail silhouette – his black high top chuck taylor’s sporting flames.  he was gentle yet aggressive and played with a refreshing looseness that conveyed his level of comfort with his instrument – and yet after years of mastery he was coy – humble. they jammed – i watched – and when it was over neither one of them spoke a word – and left the stage with little more than a nod of their heads.

  

i encountered them on my way out – as i was running to get my car and came to know that this man’s name is mark. sam – his son, played with him on this night, ‘a rare moment’ they said because they live in different cities. mark said his rings fly off sometimes when he is playing – but that they always come back.

photo credit: Rick Farrell | mojophotori.com