A man praying in Penn Station on the Eve of Shabbat.
He stood still in the middle of a crowd, with body motionless in a scene cluttered with movement. Like paint splattered across a canvas, they all moved seemingly aimless intent.
But with eyes closed, he moved not a muscle except for his lips in a breath of silent prayer. What was he praying for?
Black top hat and timeless suit, like an snapshot from a time past. He nodded his head ever so slightly as he silently chanted, and the chin-length curls near his ears swayed in the wind of the passing commuters.
One man, faithfully sending out prayers in the midst of a full on assault on the weekend. I was a part of the mess. I walked by. Slowed to notice his posture. But as I climbed the stairs and turned back seconds later, he was gone. As if his sacred space had quietly combusted into the web of stories rushing each to their own Friday afternoon destination.