Tenderness

             An old man was sitting on his porch playing a lute when a young boy happened by. “Is that a guitar?” the little boy asked.

“It’s a lute,” said the old man.

“What’s a lute?”

“It’s a very old instrument. Been around since the middle ages.”

The boy looked at him, as if confused.

“Would you like to look at it?” the man asked.

“No,” said the boy. “I should get home. My mom’s waiting for me.”

“Okay,” said the man, who continued playing. He watched as the young boy made his way down the street, occasionally looking back at him, as if with wonder.

The man kept playing. His playing became stronger and more effusive. He became so entranced in his playing that he didn’t notice that the young boy had come back and was walking up the walkway toward him. Finally, when the boy was right in front of him, he noticed him. The boy stood and listened to him play. The old man didn’t stop, but felt now that he was really performing for the boy. His music poured in waves from the instrument, which now seemed to be a part of the man’s body and an extension of his mind. He closed his eyes as he played, and saw in his mind a great struggle between evil and angelic beings, a beautiful clash between bright and dark colors, and tears poured down his cheeks as he played. Finally, he finished, and opened his eyes and looked at the boy, who was looking at him, wide eyed. The man wiped away his tears.

“Why are you crying?” the boy asked.

“I have a tender heart,” said the man. “I’m old. When you get old, simple things make you cry.”

The boy seemed not to understand, though he nodded his head.

“Shouldn’t you get home?” the man said.

“Yes,” said the boy. The boy turned and walked down the steps, and the man watched him go. But halfway up the walk the boy turned around and looked once more at the man. His dark eyes looked deep, and they shimmered as if they too were filled with tears.