Banjo Dave

Carrying baby River in a sling, I walked past a guy downtown today playing his banjo. Noticed him. Sunglasses. Unshaven. Ignored him. Avoided him. Was slightly scared of him. And then I remembered fifty conversations. Here is a conversation. An opening. Walked over to him. He started talking and I listened. He talked for 30 minutes. "I died last month," he said. OK. I definitely had a conversation here. He died for four minutes. His second heart attack. He had been working for a delivery company 60 hour weeks, and filling in the rest of his time doing his own reno business. "I never saw my kids. Didn't have the time." And now, he's recovering at home and sees his kids all the time. Sees them growing up. He's with them. And they don't know him. They avoid him. Don't want to spend time. They play video games and watch TV. Dad is annoying. "Why are you around so much now, Dad?" He missed them growing up, is missing them now. And yet he is alive. He is really alive, appreciative of living, of time. He plays his banjo downtown, makes a little busking change. Is happy. Part of his heart is dead. Waiting for an operation, to be fixed, made whole, a broken heart to be mended. His dream is to buy a farm, bring his kids out there, and grow up with them with the straw bales of his own childhood. Doing stuff outside. Sitting by the fire. Talking with each other. Being together.