Golden Voice

Listen to the man, with the Golden Voice and trust me I’m a connoisseur of sounds. Being blind since the age of 5, I sit in many places and often go unnoticed by the passing throng; listening instead of watching life go by.  As I sit in the park that day, the melodious tones waft over me like a silken scarf.  The lyrics overshadow the music.  As they enter my psyche, I am transported to a heavenly place.  I smile as he effortlessly changes key because it moves me higher and higher.  Though I’ll never see his face, I know it’s beautiful, a shimmering halo surrounds him.  He has obviously been touched by Orpheus—how else to explain what his voice is doing to my spirit?



The song has ended and I hear the polite applause and a few clinks of coins in a box. The people around me remain unmoved and I believe it’s because they can only see with their eyes.  As he prepares to sing another song, I hear his fingers strum the guitar in an introduction to a song I recognize.  I want to sing along, but I don’t dare; who am I to interfere with the Gods?  I hold my breath—it couldn’t be an accident, that Golden Voice.  It was real.  As he begins to sing, the sound is joyous.  I raise my unseeing eyes to the sky; his voice makes the clouds and sun visible to me.  Through the melancholy verse, in my mind’s eye I see a solitary bird soar, searching for a mate to share the moment.  I am the only witness to this miracle, for I hear the people moving, walking and most profanely, talking on cell phones.  Can’t they hear what I hear, above the cacophony of the lunchtime crowd, the sound of longing, the sense of pain?  Each chorus is building to a defeating crescendo and I am glad, so glad, that I am a witness!



No applause meets my ears at the conclusion of his song and I am too awestruck to move.  I can hear the sound of his packing his guitar and picking up his puny offerings.  I take a bill out of my purse, wave it and I risk speaking to the Genius in my tarnished voice.  “Sir, for your time, and for your songs.”  He takes the money, silent at first and says, “Thank you miss, it was my pleasure.” I hear, but do not see his smile, and through it I sense how proud he is, even though no one but me recognized what just occurred.  Remembering the near orgasmic response I had to his performance, I risk speaking again. “No, thank you,” I croak, “Believe me, the pleasure was all mine.” The magic moment passes and he shuffles off, humming to himself.  I don’t know if I will ever hear him again—I seriously doubt it.  Only once in a lifetime, if ever, does one get touched by the Man with the Golden Voice.