ABSTRACT
We are swaying together, worker and clients, arms gathered around each other and hands holding in a barely conscious reaching out, past the music and beyond the surroundings, thirty or forty or even fifty years into memory. The place is a senior citizens' center. A Runyanesque figure-his hat, whether summer or winter, worn as he must have in some nightclub of the thirties-plays his piano. His hands flutter, bird-like, across the keys. Some lyrics return, some are forgotten, but the mood is fixed in the moment.
