The Music Box

I finish polishing the wood and open the lid of the music box. A tinkling melody floats into the crisp dawn air. Today is our anniversary and the song is the one we danced to on our wedding night.

Not our customary first dance with our families surrounding us, their joyous smiles and tear-filled eyes watching. Although that song, and that moment, was wonderful, I’ve chosen another.

The song that played next on our playlist, after the guests had left. The moment when we looked around the backyard of our new home, weary and deliriously happy. I took my new wife’s hand and pulled her up for one last dance in that gorgeous dress, alone at last. I can still taste the sweet icing on her lips when I kissed her. As the music continues, the smell of the honeysuckle bushes fills my nose. For a moment, I’m back there again.

I’m not sure when I closed my eyes, but I open them now to examine the box I carved. The oak is smooth in my hands and cream-colored velvet lines the interior. Satisfied, I carefully place the jewelry box into a gift bag.

I sneak back into the house and place the bag on my wife’s nightstand. I carefully slide into bed beside her, my side now cool. I drift off to sleep as I wait for her to wake.

…

“What’s this?” a soft voice asks, slightly hoarse from sleep.

“Open it and see,” I reply as I sit up and stretch groggily.

Her face lights up in that way it does whenever she gets a surprise. When her eyes twinkle that way, she looks so youthful that the slight wrinkles around their edges disappear. She yanks out the pink crinkly paper and beams. She gently removes the box and sets it in front of her on our puffy peach comforter.

She opens the box and gasps when the music plays. I watch her face expectantly, and I can tell the exact moment she recognizes the song. Her eyes go wide and her mouth pops open slightly as she turns to me.

“It’s the song…” she begins.

I just nod with a crooked grin on my face.

“I love it.” She grins wide and rewards me with a kiss.

I hold out my hand to her and we climb out of bed. She rests her blonde head against my chest as we move along with the music.

…

As I shuffle through my parent’s room in a daze, my eyes fall on a carved wooden jewelry box. The flicker of a memory appears in my mind: running into this very room with a scraped elbow to find my parents dancing to the music. I forgot about my injury as they pulled me into their dance.

Tears well at the memory as I plop down onto their bed, box in hand. I sigh as I glance around the room, wondering where to begin. I knew this would be difficult and emotional, which is why I put it off for over a month. I thought I was ready to face the remnants of my parents’ life and all the memories it would bring to the surface, but now I’m not so sure.

My chest tightens painfully, like my ribs are cracking, and my breaths become shallow. To distract from my grief, I open the music box. The tune I recognize floats through the air, and the notes seem to give off a shimmer of light. I don’t even know the story behind the song. Now I regret that I never asked them.

The light from the music turns to a bright glow. I rub my eyes as the room seems to fade before me. I jump up when the bed disappears and I’m standing in the backyard. I wonder if grief is causing me to hallucinate.

I turn to take in the scene before me. Lights are strung across the yard and a wooden archway stands on the far side. Plastic chairs and tables are littered with plates and cups. I hear the song play, but not from the box in my hand. The music is louder and coming from a large speaker.

Movement beside me draws my eyes. I blink a few times as a younger version of my father pulls my mother up from her seat. Her cheeks are flushed and curls of hair stick to her face, but they both look happy. They lean into each other as they dance slowly around the yard.

The image fades away and I am alone again on the bed. I snap the lid shut and stare down at the box in my hands.

…

It took me a while, but I finally found an antique dealer who was willing to talk to me about the music box. I open the door to his store and a little bell chimes. The smells of wood and musty paper fill the space. When I look around, I become slightly concerned that one of the stacks of assorted objects might tumble down upon me.

An elderly man, surprisingly lithe for his age, maneuvers under and around furniture and piles of old books. He grasps my hand in both of his and shakes it heartily.

“Welcome. Welcome,” he tells me with a flourish.

I fight the urge to giggle.

“Come, have a seat.” He motions me further into the shop. “Right over…” He spins in a circle before moving a rather precarious stack of items to a nearly buried desk. “Here.” He points to the now empty chair.

I slide a glance to the dusty seat and raise my eyebrows slightly. I’m wearing my only pair of dress pants.

“Oh, umm…” The shop owner proceeds to wipe the surface of the chair with his shirt sleeve before giving me a sheepish grin.

I sit and thank him for seeing me. I hold out the box for him to examine. He grasps it firmly in both hands and opens the lid slowly, a fact I appreciate, especially considering the state of some of the items in his shop.

“You say the box showed you some kind of vision? Tell me how that happened,” he says.

“I thought that’s what you were going to tell me,” I reply. I’ve noticed that I’ve been more irritable lately, and I remind myself that this man is helping me. “Please, I don’t know how it happened.”

“That’s not what I mean, my dear. Tell me the circumstances surrounding the event. What were you doing just before? That will help me tell you why it happened. We already know its magic, but the source…”

“Magic isn’t real,” I interrupt him.

“Not until you’ve seen it,” he tells me with a wink.

“Then how come more people haven’t?”

“Because it’s extremely rare, of course.”

I contemplate his words for a moment. There’s a truth to them, I suppose. Now that I’ve seen it, how can I really deny that magic is real? What other explanation is there?

I sigh and begin to tell him the story of how I rediscovered the music box. He leans toward me and watches my face as I talk. He nods his head as I tell him of how I wished I knew the story of why my father chose that particular song. When I pause, he motions for me to continue. I describe the vision for him, and he nods again.

“Well then, the reason you saw the vision is that you wished for it.”

“So I just happen to have a magical, wish-granting music box?”

“No, of course not,” he replies with a chuckle.

“But you already told me it was magic, and you just said…”

“What I mean is, you didn’t just happen to have it. Your family didn’t stumble across some magic artifact. Think about it. Your father made this box.”

“So my father went ahead and made a magical box for my mother. How did he know how to do that?”

“I never said he knew how to do it.”

“Ugh,” I groan. “Then what are you saying?”

“I’m saying that magic is rare and powerful. It can only come about from an act of loving creation.”

“Oh yes, the magic of true love,” I roll my eyes.

“You need more than just true love. Lots of people are in love. Magic only becomes a part of an object when it is made selflessly for someone you truly love, and the creator pours their heart and their hopes into the creation.”

“How do you know all this?” I ask.

“I’ve seen it,” he replies with another wink.

***

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