And as he walked home she sang to him a sweet lullaby.
"I finally figured it out," he said. "Why I love working on old computers."
He stared off the bridge toward the water below, dark and silent in the moonlight. She said nothing.
"It is a sense of satisfaction," he said, not looking up. "a feeling of redemption. I take these old computers, made of old parts no one needs, old software no one wants, and I put them together, and they work."
She whispered something he could not understand. A stray sheet of paper drifted toward him, rustling and ticking across the pavement. He picked it up, idly smoothing it out, flattening out the creases. "Free Concert" it read, with a date of the night before. His hands started working the paper as he started to speak again.
"I take what others passed over, gave up on as not worth the effort, and I, I don't know, I redeem it. I give it worth again." he paused, glancing briefly at the paper he was folding. "No, that's not right- I remind everyone, show everyone, even myself, the value it had all along. And it goes on to someone who needs it, and it makes their life better." Another crease. "At least, that is what I want to happen."
She had nothing to add.
"And I realized, it's all just me. I see myself in all these old parts, another castoff in the back of some closet, next to some dumpster. I'm waiting for someone who needs what I have to offer, someone who looks at me and sees something-" His hands stopped.
She waited while he took a few deep breaths.
"Something worth saving. Something worth their time and effort. Someone to love and need me for what I am, tattered and careworn and broken as I may be." His hands resumed. "I look at my broken parts, but i can never seem to figure out how to put them back together and make them work right." A final crease, and a paper glider rested in his hands.
"Tell me," he asked her, "Can you call it art if you're the only one who sees it?"
At last she spoke, and she lifted the glider from his hands, and together they soared away, toward the distant glimmering lights of the city. Maybe they'd make it.
And then he turned and started walking home, for suddenly he felt the dark and cold.
He stared off the bridge toward the water below, dark and silent in the moonlight. She said nothing.
"It is a sense of satisfaction," he said, not looking up. "a feeling of redemption. I take these old computers, made of old parts no one needs, old software no one wants, and I put them together, and they work."
She whispered something he could not understand. A stray sheet of paper drifted toward him, rustling and ticking across the pavement. He picked it up, idly smoothing it out, flattening out the creases. "Free Concert" it read, with a date of the night before. His hands started working the paper as he started to speak again.
"I take what others passed over, gave up on as not worth the effort, and I, I don't know, I redeem it. I give it worth again." he paused, glancing briefly at the paper he was folding. "No, that's not right- I remind everyone, show everyone, even myself, the value it had all along. And it goes on to someone who needs it, and it makes their life better." Another crease. "At least, that is what I want to happen."
She had nothing to add.
"And I realized, it's all just me. I see myself in all these old parts, another castoff in the back of some closet, next to some dumpster. I'm waiting for someone who needs what I have to offer, someone who looks at me and sees something-" His hands stopped.
She waited while he took a few deep breaths.
"Something worth saving. Something worth their time and effort. Someone to love and need me for what I am, tattered and careworn and broken as I may be." His hands resumed. "I look at my broken parts, but i can never seem to figure out how to put them back together and make them work right." A final crease, and a paper glider rested in his hands.
"Tell me," he asked her, "Can you call it art if you're the only one who sees it?"
At last she spoke, and she lifted the glider from his hands, and together they soared away, toward the distant glimmering lights of the city. Maybe they'd make it.
And then he turned and started walking home, for suddenly he felt the dark and cold.