I am eating in my backup diner this morning. People are singing.

Across the diner, a fellow old as I am but with long luxurious grey hair is singing “Yellow Submarine.” The waitress tells us that her child used to sing that song using the words “Summer Green”. We all laugh, remembering our own children with their private languages.

In the kitchen, the cook, a normally silent young man, is singing something vaguely Indian. American Indian. He is bareheaded in a t=shirt and jeans, but there is a strange power in his voice, a nobility in someone who has not spoken five words in the years I have been coming here.

Outside, another waitress sings some Broadwayish song about sunshine. She has a high pitched voice, like a Disney heroine, clear and sweet and piercing. Through the window, I can’t make out the words, only the tenor of the song.

They aren’t playing any music on the stereo here. Evidently they don’t need it. Even with the remnants of the Hurricane inching into the area with its dark clouds, winds, and rain, they are providing their own music.

I smile. As long as there is singing, there is hope in the world.

Tom