The eclectic air of New York City greeted the twilight buzz of Central Park with a breeze of electrifying energy as the colors of the setting sun melted into the trees. I, however, met the dusk buzz with nothing but fatigue, sweat, and sore feet after walking multiple blocks wearing shoes that were hardly broken in. Despite it being the third consecutive day I walked from Times Square to 72^nd Street, I still managed to find myself lost under a bridge, furiously seeking the directions to Strawberry Fields and praying that no one would notice my naïveté in visiting New York City for the first time.

When I arrived at the mosaic circle with the iconic word “Imagine” in its core, a tribute to John Lennon, I was met with the familiar twang of the Beatles’ song “I’ve Just Seen A Face” coming from under the trees on a nearby park bench. I turned to observe the tranquil scenery and noticed a graying street performer sitting on the bench strumming the chords and singing the melody. Within seconds, an idea struck.

“Mum,” I said, turning to my mother, who accompanied me on the trip. “What if I asked to play his guitar?” With no hesitation at observing my gutsy intuition, my mother smiled and followed me to where the street performer was perched.

“Hey there,” he said with a wide smile. “Nice shirt,” he added, pointing out my “Abbey Road” t-shirt. At that moment, I wanted to punch myself for looking like a ridiculously crazed fan, but I smiled and let the blush rise to my cheeks.

“Thank you,” I answered. “Nice song.” After a nervous pause, I continued, “Do you mind if I borrowed your guitar and played something?”

The street performer laughed and said jokingly, “Of course not! Haven’t you ever been to New York before? We don’t share.” He must’ve noticed my embarrassment soon after, because he happily gave me the guitar and added, “I'm actually from New Jersey, but anyway, she’s all yours. Well, maybe not yours yours, but you know what I mean.”

I smiled, feeling a new air rustle through the trees. I thanked him for his generosity and looked over my shoulder to see other people conversing on the park benches around the mosaic circle. Others were taking pictures and laughing while communicating in other languages.

After the circle cleared, the dusk sun just barely giving light, I sat right in the center. I took a calm breath and began to play and sing John Lennon’s song “Imagine.” I closed my eyes and let the lyrics flow. By the time I opened my eyes again, a small crowd had formed around me, and the bench conversations ceased. Rather, they began to sing the chorus with me: “You may say I’m a dreamer, but I’m not the only one.”

I looked at the faces that beamed back at me and noticed that they had come from all different walks of life. There were children, teens, and adults that knew the words I sang—words that were penned decades ago by a visionary but still, perhaps without coincidence, resonates fully. The reaction I received from singing “Imagine” is proof of that.

There is something to be said about that intimacy of music. No one may know where you came from, no one may know what you have done or witnessed, but with the words you articulate and the notes you sing, you could communicate volumes of emotion and experience within minutes. You make a connection to someone you may have never met, and you have the power to affect their life if only for a brief moment in that space you share. You could even have the power to transcend through generations.

The magnitude of that feeling hit me after departing the memorial since I knew that I might not have had the chance to return for a while. I held on to the memory for a while afterward, and I even felt tears well up in my eyes. A bit much for such a short encounter, but that made it all the more powerful. As a musician, it was, as cliché as it sounds, like living in a dream.

On a side note, I never got the street performer’s name, and I haven’t seen him since, but, yes, I did give his guitar back.