The Little Wooden Music Box

I stared at the dark wooden box which lay on my crisp white bed sheets. I stared at every little detail of it. The small white lilies delicately etched in the dark mahogany wood, the way the vine leaves intertwined with each other, enveloping the fairy which stood proud and centre in the lid of the box. Her long dark hair tumbling down her back, tiny pink lilies placed precisely amongst her thick locks. The pale cornflower blue sundress hugged her fragile body. Her wings were a mixture of every shade of blue possible. She was beautiful. The box was beautiful.

Perched cross legged on the bed, my mind raced back to the day I received the box. Given to me with hopeful eyes. You watched, scrutinizing my reaction, that emerald gaze fixed upon me. You were hoping, desperately, that no flicker of disappointment would flash across my face, even for a second. It didn’t. There was nothing but pure admiration and love that I felt for you in that moment.

My fingertips gently brushed along the top of the image engraved, tracing each lily and every leaf carefully. I was speechless. It was perfect. I never knew an object could look so beautiful.

It was even more beautiful that the one I received from my father on my ninth birthday. A small gift he picked up at a thrift store. Second hand and worn out. The wood was scratched; the paint which tinged the lilies had faded. It had become unwanted and unloved. Thrown aside and discarded effortlessly. Somewhere, someone had once treasured this box like only a child can.

I never knew you understood how devastated I was to lose that box. But you did, somehow you did know. You always just seemed to understand me perfectly.

My memory flashed to the day I lost it. The day we lost everything.

I remembered the fire clearly. The way the flames danced around, as though laughing at the cruel joke they played. We watched our home burn to the ground from our yard. We watched as we lost everything.

Though really, I only lost one thing. My little wooden music box.

Every time I opened that box and listened to that familiar tinkle, I felt safe. I felt like there was no where I would rather be, except right there in the moment. Every night I was listen to that same tune, fall asleep with it replaying over and over, a soundtrack to my dreams.

But the fire, it took all that away. Destroyed those memories, those feelings, just as it destroyed everything we owned.

So when you handed me this exact replica of my music box, made by you, I was more than surprised. Every detail was perfect on it. As though you lived inside my head, and breathed the same memories. As though you also cherished and loved the same music box. As though it was the last thing your father bought you.

I opened it. I watched in awe as the tiny fairy rose up and spun around, arms raised like a ballet dancer, and played that familiar tune. The same feeling of instant security and safety rushed over me. This was a moment I never wanted to end.

But it did.

And so did you.

You left too soon. You weren’t ready, I wasn’t ready. You were taken from me too early, just like my little wooden music box. Just like my father. I never even got a chance to say goodbye. I never said I loved you every minute of every day. I never said it enough.

Now when I look at the small, once beautiful, music box I can’t help but see you. Your image stained across the box. Your memory etched upon its surface, mocking me. It held every memory I had of you and selfishly played them over and over until I screamed for it to stop. The tune inside was now familiar with your voice. Your soft Brooklyn accent repeatedly played again and again. Whispering nothing. Screaming everything. I needed it all to stop. I needed you, not this memory of you trapped to an object.

The beauty of the box disappeared. It became ugly. Stained with a part of you that could never be whole again. No object is so beautiful that it will never become ugly.