Jones wrote songs. A boy told him, “I hear your songs coming out your window every day I go to school. They make me want to sing.”
Jones kept writing songs. No one else sang them. When he was old he realized he’d been creating songs his whole life for no one but this kid he met once for a few minutes.
Jones died and was supposed to be buried in potter’s field, but was mistakenly put in the grave of a woman who’d left eight children. They left flowers whenever they visited Jones’ grave, which was often.
(c) 2017 by John Stephen Walsh