There was a young man who played the guitar for tips on Morelos Street, one of the busiest streets in Monterrey.
He had no legs, just a wooden board with wheels that he used to glide through the crowd.
It was impossible not to see him.
The same corner every day. The same worn-out guitar. The same expression of stubborn grace in his eyes.
He never asked for pity. He asked for attention, not to his condition, but to his music.
And every chord he played rose above the noise of the city, the trucks, the vendors, the constant murmur of voices, like a flash of soul against the concrete.
Almost every day I encountered him during my walks through downtown.
Those walks were my way of disappearing.
There were times when the weight of my world, the one I carried behind the badge, became too heavy.
When we lost our friends Ábrego and Zavala. When Jaime Zapata was murdered on the highway.
When the Casino Royale caught fire and fifty-two innocent people could not escape.
They were days when even prayer felt heavy.
So I walked. I let Monterrey swallow me, vendors shouting their prices, couples laughing, taxis honking, the smell of roasted corn mixed with car exhaust.
In that chaos, I could be nobody. Just another man moving through the noise.
Those walks among the crowd on Morelos reminded me that life goes on, and that we must continue the fight for those who are no longer here.
And in the middle of that noise, I always found him—the man with the board and the guitar.
He didn’t know my name. I doubt he knew who I was. But he recognized my face.
I always left him a good tip. It was my way of saying thank you without breaking the spell.
A couple of times I asked him to play "Knockin’ on Heaven’s Door."
He smiled every time, as if he understood why I asked him to.
He would close his eyes and play it slowly, not like the radio version, but softer, stripped down, like a whispered prayer through steel strings.
The notes floated down Morelos Street, mingling with laughter and traffic, fragile, defiant, alive.
He had no legs, and I had no peace.
But for those minutes, neither of us needed to be whole.
That song carried what words could never say.
It was mourning, memory, and resistance, all woven into a single melody.
The guitarist never complained about his situation.
He simply kept showing up to do his job.
And that motivated me more than he would ever know.
He reminded me that strength isn’t always loud.
Sometimes it’s just the act of showing up, again and again.
On the days when duty felt heavier than I could bear, I thought of him, still playing, still fighting to be heard.
Sometimes I wonder if he’s still there.
Maybe he left. Maybe not.
But the lesson he left me remained.
We all have our corners, those small and insignificant places where we keep showing up, whether someone is watching or not.
And perhaps that is the purest form of courage: no medals or headlines, just the simple act of moving forward when everything inside you wants to give up.
Author's Note:
2011 was one of the most difficult periods of my life.
We suffered the loss of our friends Ábrego and Zavala. Officer Jaime Zapata was attacked and murdered. The Casino Royale caught fire, claiming the lives of fifty-two innocent people. These events did not occur in isolation; they accumulated until mourning became a constant presence.
During that time, I began to walk as a form of therapy. I walked to quiet my mind, to lose myself in the movement of the city. Many of those days, getting out of bed felt like a monumental task. There were moments when I honestly wanted to give up.
It was during those walks that I found the guitarist on Morelos Street.
Despite his physical limitations, he showed up every day at the same corner to earn a living, rain or shine. He asked for nothing, except to be heard. His constancy was silent, almost invisible, but steadfast.
Unknowingly, he inspired me.
This essay is written in his honor, as a show of gratitude for the strength he demonstrated simply by showing up each day, when it would have been easier not to.
"Knockin’ on Heaven’s Door" – Bob Dylan / Guns N’ Roses (acoustic version)
If you listen to it while reading, you might hear what I heard that day on Morelos Street.
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