Music Box

I’m the girl men fall blindly in love with for 72 hours. A funeral is always held for what’s left of me when they’re done. They take my memory, burn it to ash and place it on a shelf in a pitch black corner of their mind.

I become the ballerina in a music box next to their stuffed bears won at the 1996 county fair and the memory of lilacs that used to grow next to their aunts' houses in the spring.

I wait for them to trip over the thought of that 4th of July weekend and send dust flying off my pearlescent edges. I wait for them to venture in and light my corner after too much vodka or a heated argument.

They all arrive curious, running their fingers across my hinges. A few never do open me up. A few act as if they’re waking from a deep sleep. They’re cavemen rediscovering fire. They hold me and marvel at how beautiful... how terrifying... how sad I've become in the darkness.

The best of them wind me up and watch me twirl. Do I not twirl as lovely as I once did? Do I not sing the same tinny song I always have? Of course I do. The notes sound different the second and worse the third time around.

Visits are fleeting when they cut deep. I'm placed back in my home softly and sweetly. I’m beautiful and precious, but what else is a man supposed to do with a silly music box.