Hidden behind black gates and the food trucks lining Fifth Avenue, familiar faces and new ones passing through frequent the spot. It’s a Sunday. If I listen closely from the busy street, I can already hear the music. A jazz band is playing.

Sitting on one of the curved benches with a plaque reminding us who sat there before, I can enjoy the company of music and everything else. An ice cream cone turns into tiny, sticky fingers pressing up against tired knees. The mothers and babies are hiding from the boiling early-September sun.

When the tourists tire of staring at crumpled subway maps, when the parents need a breather, when the retail worker takes her break, they’re all looking for the same thing: relief. Something to wrap them up and tell them they’re doing alright.

A couple discusses the exhibitions they saw at the Met, as they look over the brochure and try to remember. When they can’t agree on what the name of a painting was, the man takes out a cigarette.

A young man holds his grandmother as she tells him about the music. She recognizes it before the song even begins. They’re suddenly stuck in place until the saxophone solo finishes.

A little boy runs up to the open instrument case stacked with cds and dollar bills to add his own contribution. He giggles when the musician gratefully nods at him and then retreats back to his dad.

The drummer’s green hat matches the droopy leaves leftover from the height of summer. Soon, they’ll be falling onto the blue snare drum. He keeps looking over to the man playing the keyboard as if he wants to tell him something.

Maybe he’s noticing the same things I am. The dog loose from its owner and scurrying under the legs of the audience. Children climbing the Group of Bears. Chalk drawings on the pavement. A woman in white boots typing softly on an iPad. A man stroking the back of his teenage son’s head. Two people sharing lunch from one of the food trucks.

When they finish their set, the air around everyone changes. We are no longer experiencing something together. Instead, the worker returns to her job, the food truck lunch is finished, the babies are strapped into their strollers and the tourists continue on to see the sights. I linger to finish my thoughts then join the rest of the city again.