I was nineteen and bewildered by the city, I was broke and tired and shuffling between jobs. I was growing years and years older by the day; it felt like I was losing a sparkle and dulling the light. It was on a crowded street car heading west on Queen Street on a cold November afternoon that I came across her. It was a particularly hard day and I was feeling low and mournful. I was squished between commuters and sweating in my parka between all the heavy bodies, and I was standing above her chair against the window. I found myself praying, “is there hope? Is there color left to find?” And she began to hum, soft at first, and then only a bit louder, a soothing lullaby and a rolling hymn. Her face was creased and weathered but there was no furrow to her brow. The lapel of her wool coat was a soft hue of purple and neatly kept. Her hands weren’t uneasy or trembling, she was calm, but more-so had peace, and all the color and hope in the world.