I wasn't there when Yo-Yo Ma picked up his cello. I didn't see him leave Charleston's Gaillard Center and stroll into the starry night. I imagine he clung to the Anson Street sidewalk and cut a lone figure in the crosswalk at Calhoun. Sometimes, darkness makes anyone anonymous. I guess strains of his Bach encore still paraded through his head, lending imaginary life to the silent street. An empty school. A sleeping office space. The harsh cry of a feral cat. Footprints of a world-famous musician. I wish I could follow those footsteps. I wish more humans would.