leon

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I’d see him each day as I got off the bus

on my way to class. He’d be standing in front of his

record shop on Broad Street in Newark

in his floppy hat, bellbottom pants and gap-toothed grin,

flashing the peace sign, smiling or having a conversation

with anyone who walked by.

At age 19, in 1969, the city was on fire and I

was a question mark, wondering what this world

was trying to be, with its need to change me.

His store was a refuge.

On Monday’s Leon would play the Mama’s and Papa’s

Monday, Monday, and James Browns’ Live at the Apollo

over and over.

And as I scrolled through his stacks of LP’s he’d ask

what music I listened to and why? What did I think

about the Vietnam war, and street protests?

What was college teaching me about life? Questions no one

in my family asked. My mother called him a mulignana,

my father didn’t know I went there.

Once I noticed Leon, head thrust up in abandon—his one

lazy eye wandering off to wherever, enthralled by the sounds of the city.

He would sing, the world is made of music, it is memory and magic.

Then he’d play Both Sides Now, by Judy Collins, for me,

which like my world, was both heartbreaking and hopeful.

He’d shake his head and say: Ya got to make your own way man.

The seasons passed, I made my own way, and the record shop is long gone.

But I carry him with me as I listen to Both Sides Now,

warmed by the fire of memory.