I was walking through the downtown area of my city making my way to lunch when I came across a man lying on the sidewalk. Looking up into the sky, he seemed to have no hurry in himself. He wasn’t going anywhere, nor did he need to be anywhere. A hobo, I thought to myself and looked forward to avoid eye contact.

Then I stopped.

A little music box, with beautifully done woodworking on the outside, sat by the man's foot. The contradiction between the man and the beautifully polished box made me interested. I have worked and been fascinated by small machines since I was little, and as I had plenty of time, asked the man if he could play it for me.

The man looked up and I saw a weathered and beaten face, full of whiskers and sadness. The man spoke and said that the box would not play as something was broken inside. Again the thought came to my head that I had plenty of time.

I offered to fix it.

There was a moment of doubt, but then the man brightened up and started talking to me as I pulled out my swiss army knife and got to work.

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As I worked the man began to speak about the box, trailing off now and again as he got lost in his thoughts. He seemed to feel the need to pay me for my time even if he had nothing to pay me with. It’s funny, I don’t know if from a sense of pride he felt he owed me something, but the conversation was welcome nevertheless. God knows I’ve had enough of silence from this world.

The box had been his mother's. It was an engagement present, but the father had died and his mother, a single mom, had struggled to raise a family all on her own. No schooling, little money, and a couple of part-time jobs that barely seemed to pay the bills.

He had left then, he got sadder as he looked up into the sky. He told me about where he went. A war, then back. To a job in the civilian world. And then back home. Leaving and returning, he said, is an unfortunate process. Because no matter what you do, you’re always leaving a bit of yourself in either place. The normal process is you give a little and take a little, but sometimes you just give too much. Things too important to you to let go.

It went unspoken about what exactly should not be given. He looked sadder now, and I guess a lifetime around the world passed in our conversation. It was... Nice. I would like to think that I relieved him a little of his story.

I had finished up the box by then. He thanked me for my time and I stood up. As I walked off I mused to myself; it had a bit of poetry I think: A broken box, a broken childhood, and a broken man.