TUBA

The tuba gleamed like molten gold as the young man trudged the sweltering beach.

“Play us a note,” I called.

“No,” he replied, eyes fixed on waves.

“Come on, just one.”

“Only Grandma plays.”

Behind him, teenagers recorded with phones, their giggles scattering gulls into sunset.

“What’s going on?” I asked one.

He nodded towards another in red shorts. “That’s his cousin.”

“Our grandfather passed last week.” The boy in red shorts explained. “That was his tuba.”

“Does he play?”

“No.” The boy watched light fracture on water.

“Neither did our grandfather.”

He paused. “But our grandmother was a virtuosa.”

DOUBLE BIRD

I stopped at the light, my tattooed arm out the window. A man in ragged clothes held a sign:

At least give me the middle finger

“Clever sign.” I chuckled.

His broken eyes met mine. “Everyone else in my life’s already flipped me off. Thought I’d let the public have a turn.”

As I passed it though the gap between us, the five-dollar bill was as tattered as the relationship with my family before I got sober.

His fingers trembled as he took it.

“God bless,” he whispered.

And meant every word.

“Take care,” I replied.

And meant every word.