Dear Diary:
An elderly homeless woman on the B train on an October night, cane in one hand, change cup in the other, told us her story as she held herself up against one of the seats near the door.
She was once a pianist, a promising Juilliard student at the time Itzhak Perlman was there in the 1950s. She fondly remembered passing Richard Rodgers in the hallways. As she spoke, it was clear she was mentally and physically exhausted, and she admitted that she wasn't sure how much life she still had in her. Although she didn't elaborate on what had gone wrong, something obviously had.
“If you don't use your talents, you lose them,†she lamented, more to herself than to the few subway riders who took notice.
Her regret at having squandered her abilities struck me so poignantly and so deeply that I felt compelled to say something. As I slipped some money into her cup her weary eyes raised and brightened as if I had just brought her roses at Carnegi e Hall. She took my hand, held it tightly for a moment, and genuinely thanked me.
“Be well. Be safe,†I said, and ascended from the Rockefeller Center station a little more grateful, a little more motivated, and convinced more than ever that every life offers a lesson in living.
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