He sits on a small wood stool
at Pier 39
a young Indian man
sleek black hair pulled back
an Indian blanket draped over
his shoulders.
The gentle sounds
of the wood flutes he plays
floating in the cool
San Francisco breeze.
Making everyone’s cares
seem less than they already are.
Adding to the peace
and the beauty
of all that is on the bay.

For three days I passed him.
Each day looking forward to,
so hoping that,
he and his sweet music
would be there to greet me
to fill my head and heart
with the solace I so desperately
sought here, although
I lived so far away.

His music greeted us each time
and we would notice him
solemn and alone.
Filling the air with such magnificence
so many people passing by him.
Can’t they hear the magic in his music?
Taking me somewhere else
Giving me such joy
and sweet peace.

Two wood flutes he held between his hands,
and like Pan he so lovingly played them.
The seagulls sitting quietly before him
enjoying their concert.
Waiting for someone to drop a crumb of food.

On our last day before leaving
I had to go back one last time.
One last time to hear the songs
that had so touched my heart and my mind.
I wanted to take his picture to remember him,
just as we tourist do.

His music greeted us blocks away
beckoning to us on the wind.
We walked past the shops,
the smells of the restaurants,
his music calling me more.
Addicted to its charm
I searched it out
as a mouse following the
Pied piper out of town.

Camera poised and ready to aim
from a few feet back
I decided to near closer,
but yet so as not to distract him.
I raised the camera to my eyes
and his eyes smiled back
nodding at me to say “it’s okay”.

Then I noticed the hands holding the flutes
had no fingers.
Tumors covered the tops of his hands,
large as apples.
His face burnt and scarred,
His nose partially missing,
yet his eyes smiled their welcome.
I put the camera down
my husband noticing my delay
looked at me
looked at him
and gave him some money.
He thanked us
and nodding kept playing.

We backed away slowly
feeling the tears in our eyes as we did so.
His music had called me to him
yet we passed him each day
barely noticing
just enjoying.


Here one of God’s own sat among us
quietly,
happily,
tranquilly giving
to everyone around him.
Making such sweet lemonade
from the lemons he had been given
no regrets, no remorse.
The beauty of him and his music
surrounding us.
The birds protectively guarding
one of their own.

I can still hear him playing
even though now we are
oceans away.
I thank God for
the privilege and blessing
to meet such an inspiration.
One of His true angels
just sitting among us
on a small wood stool
at Pier 39...




June 23, 2002
Caryn M. Suarez