Every day, my community makes me feel alive.

Years ago, when I was a kid, I rode MARTA with my dad and his best friend to see a Rolling Stones concert. My dad (a Georgia Tech professor) and his friend were vibrating with excitement, thrilled to see their teenage idol Mick Jagger. They both were leaping around MARTA’s Inman Park-Reynoldstown station like rowdy teens. Their leaps - almost as high as the MARTA turnstiles. Briefly, my youthful self felt worried that MARTA’s police might have a word about their exuberant behavior. And yes, the concert was super-charged and magical.

Recently, I rode MARTA daily to the Civic Center station, and walked to a nearby hospital to visit my father in an ICU hospital bed. A feeding tube had silenced his voice. To cheer him up, I re-enacted his MARTA shenanigans, and blasted Rolling Stones songs across his hospital room. My father smiled widely and laughed, while clutching my hand, his fragile body rocking out to The Rolling Stones beat from his hospital bed, For those fleeting moments, we both felt so alive.