She sang before a small room in the back of an average American library. A 12-year-old blind girl. She’s cuter than a duck in a hat.

She stood before a microphone. She sang. Her eyes were closed because her eyelids don’t open. Her irises are dead, but her eyes used to be hazel.

She wore dental braces. She was clothed in a blue dress. Her hair was in braids. She’s a typical kid. Loves macaroni and cheese. Adores her iPhone. Appreciates any kind of humor that makes usage of the word “butt,” “booger,” or “fart.”

There were 120 of us piled up in the library. All Birminghamites. I was doing an informal book event. I made a speech. I wanted her to sing to my friends.

She did. I guided her to the mic. She sang the song of my grandparent’s generation. “Smile.” Written by Charlie Chaplin in 1936.

A song my grandmother used to hum throughout the Great Depression. A song with lyrics that remind listeners that life is still worthwhile, if you smile. A song that’s gotten me through some hard times.

The sniffles started from the back of the room. They moved to the front. Soon, the accompanist was sniffing, too.

You watch a blind girl, a kid who has undergone some 50 million surgeries; a kid who was born to drug-addicted parents who left her in a crib for the first two years of her life so that her head was flattened; a kid who wasn’t touched; a kid who spent the first portion of her life withdrawing from crack in an NICU; and this kid tells you to smile although your “heart is breaking,” it does something to you.

An old man broke down and wept. And old woman had to be escorted out of the room. A young boy started crying so hard he had to be consoled.

The kid got a standing ovation. But she couldn’t see it. Someone shouted, “God bless you, sweetheart!” but she didn’t hear it. Somebody brought her a bouquet of crimson roses. But she’s a kid. And kids don’t know what to do with roses.

She smelled the flowers briefly and said, “I have to pee.”

People wanted their pictures made with her. They wanted to hug her. She moved them. She sang to them. My 12-year-old blind goddaughter, who underwent neonatal abstinence syndrome, who has every reason not to be cheerful, told them to smile.

And they all walked away in a kind of shellshock. A kind of dumbfounded awe. I’m not saying their lives are changed forever, but these people are not the same as they were before they met her. None of us are.

And when the event was finished, when I was packing up my instruments, the little girl wrapped her arms around me. She is big on touch. She craves touch. She needs to be hugged.

She said, “Did I do a good job singing, Sean?”

I blew my nose loudly. “No,” I said. “You didn’t do good. You did great.”