One of the things I miss about living in Richmond — or a more populated area, really — is brunch.

Many Sundays we’d go to an early church service, then wander somewhere around the city for food.

Different spots had different specialties… usually whatever they could scrounge together for breakfast. Sometimes leftovers from the night before dressed up as something new.

Didn’t matter.

We’d eat, talk about church or whatever, stretch the morning out as long as we could. Then head home for a nap just as everyone else was getting out of church.

One Sunday, driving back toward the Northside, we heard music drifting down a side street.

Not just any music.

Accordion.

Mardi Gras was around the corner, and it was Richmond — around VCU — so anything was possible.

We parked on Clay Street and followed the sound.

I had the camera with me. Of course.

Half a block, a turn onto Adams, and another half block stopped us in front of an old Italianate townhouse in Jackson Ward.

There he was.

A college kid, ushanka pushed back, black as his hair so it was hard to tell where one ended and the other began, leaned back against the railing, squeezing an accordion like the porch was his stage.

The music seemed to soothe him while he waited for coffee — or maybe the stomach for something stronger.

We eased closer and stopped a couple yards away.

He looked up.

I lifted the camera and gave it a little shake.

He nodded and kept playing.

So we listened.

And I photographed.

As life went by.

When he finished, we talked. I can’t remember his name now, but he was a third-year physics major — pretty sure that’s right — and he wanted to change majors.

To music.

Composition.

He lit up explaining how math and music fit together. Frequencies. Ratios. Patterns. How numbers could become sound.

I was vaguely familiar with the Solfeggio scale and I followed him for a minute or two before the numbers lost me, but the excitement didn’t.

Some people just glow when they talk about the thing they’re meant to do.

We wished him well and walked away while he went back to playing.

I think about that kid more often than you’d expect.

Usually whenever I think about brunch.

Like this frozen Sunday morning, ten years later.

I had brunch.

Brunch options aren’t exactly abundant around here unless you feel like driving thirty minutes.

The kitchen staff wasn’t happy.

The waitstaff wasn’t happy.

The food was… passable.

Certainly not my best.

The joys of bachelorhood.

And old photos.

So if you were living on the 400 block of North Adams in Richmond, wearing a ushanka and playing accordion around midday on February 7, 2016 — I hope you found the notes and answers you were looking for.  Maybe you even found David’s secret chord.