Prologue
There is only one car in the parking lot at Delaware Park.
Mine.
A foot of snow on the ground, snowflakes in the air.
A few feet in front of my parked Corvair there stands a man with a saxophone.
His name is, Mr. Jackson.
The city around us is quiet.
And Mr. Jackson stands alone in the snow.
Gently I beep the car horn, it is now midnight.
Christmas.
Mr. Jackson looks my way, raises his saxophone, wipes off snow from the instrument, and begins to play.
It is Christmas in Buffalo, NY…
….and it is snowing.
From within the park they come.
One by one.
They come cold, they come shivering, they wear boots, they wear shoes, they wear sneakers.
They come hungry, they come sick, they come dirty, they come injured.
They are here because they have nowhere else to go.
And they listen as Mr. Jackson plays just for them.
It is Christmas in Buffalo, New York.
And it is snowing.
And Mr. Jackson is shivering.
He does not brush off the snow on his shoulders nor on his hat.
Slowly he shuffles his feet and turns my way.
I bend down and lift up the box that is now empty of food.
Mr. Jackson nods his head and slowly turns towards the woods.
And when all are gone, and when all are back to their hiding places within the park Mr. Jackson turns toward them, takes a moment and shakes the snow off his hat, blows warm air onto his fingers and then begins the low, soft, loving song for the homeless…
