Can a life weave along through the same notes and yet come to play forth different sounds?

When I think of my uncle, I hear the sounds:

– Seng, an ordinary name;

– Rough brown bristles tied to one end of a wooden stick brushing against the rough brown leaves;

– Rubber slippers brushing against the floor;

– Voices hushed in scholarly discussion;

– Other voices calling out “xiao lang, xiao lang”;

– Chopped garlic and bean sprouts sizzling in a wok.

Perhaps each of our lives has its own sound, meandering alone amidst other sounds, and sometimes, another sound comes along, mirroring the first, moving in tandem, nudging the first along. Music? Who cares to listen? Well, you never know.