Tuning Fork: Streelamp Warmth

Mike and I have walked Bronson Park for decades.

First as kids, circling the fountain barefoot in July,

humming TV jingles and daring each other to peek through the hedges

where the older men stood too long under the streetlamps.

I’d joke we were “doing recon.”

Mike would swat my shoulder—

“Don’t make it a game.”

Even then, he knew this wasn’t about mischief.

It was about wanting something we couldn’t name.

Later, we came here on dates.

Then errands.

Then just habit.

Gravel knew the rhythm of our steps.

Even the pigeons barely flinched when we passed.

Now it’s just me, watching a busker play violin

at the base of a war memorial.

They’ve got no case out for tips—

just closed eyes and a song that hangs in the air

like breath in winter.

I don’t recognize the tune.

Doesn’t matter.

I listen anyway.

And while I listen, I remember:

— the boy with trembling fingers at the church organ

—two women by the lake, bound by a wish their world would not allow

— a man who skated in circles, all glide, no audience

The ones who played once—

Gone before the crescendo.

Still part of the score.

People think music is made of sound.

But I’ve learned it’s made of silence.

The pause after the second verse.

The held breath before the curtain.

The lamp that hums when no one claps.

This isn’t the overture.

It’s the memory of one.

And if I’m lucky,

somewhere out there, someone younger is humming it back.

Gravel holds the steps
of those who dared not arrive—
I still hear their song