Music Box

I sit here on her shelf, smiling. I am always on my tiptoe, spinning. I am still until she turns the crank, then I come to life. I spin while music fills the air. I dance the same dance, I am set in my routine. My only life is to give her joy and dance just for her.

She bought when she was a child. She was seven and I was new. She paid the ten dollars she received for her birthday for me. She sat me on the shelf and played me. I spun around, just for her. I always spin just for her. She is my life.

She is older now, a teenager. I know her better then anyone. She keeps no diary, she has me. I know all her moods, all her emotions, and all her secrets. I know who she likes, I know all her teachers. I have never left the shelf in her room, but I know everything about her. She tells me. I am her best friend.

I know when she is happy. When she is happy, which is less common now a days, she comes bursting into her room, full of smiles and giggles. She turns my crank, and dances and sings along with me. She then tells me her jolly news, all filled with laughter and smiles. Like how she made a new friend, aced her test, or kissed her boyfriend on the lips. I am truly happy. My smile is real. I want to dance and sing without the crank, but I can’t. She helps me by turning the crank again.

When she is sad, I hear her sobs and moans. She comes into her room and throws herself on the bed. She cries. Then she goes to the shelf and gets me. She hugs me tightly and turns my crank. She repeats this many times. She tells me her sad news, in between tear drops, like how she was teased, a friend betrayed her, and how no one but me understands her. I don’t want to smile or dance. I want to hug and comfort her. I want to come to life, I want to be with her. But I can’t. I dance for long periods of time for her, to cheer her up. Others come home and attempt to comfort her. They can’t, only I can. I am her comfort, I give her joy, for she is my life.

Time passes, she grows. She goes off to school to study. She takes me from the shelf in her room and puts me on a new one. I stay with her while she studies long books and writes many papers. I stay in that room until Summer comes and I go back with her to her old one. Our routine is set for many years. She has fewer tears now, she says she has less time for them. Her studies make her happy, almost as happy as I make her.

She meets a boy. He is nice. He makes her always happy, happier then even I can make her. I am saddened that she no longer needs me. She tells me about him. He is studying to be a heart surgeon, while she studies to be a professor of history. She graduates before him, but they still meet. I am again in a new room on a shelf. I see them come home to her apartment often. I see him the night he gives her a ring and ask her to marry him. I smile. She is happier then ever. My life is to see her happy. If I can not give her everything she needs, I am glad he can.

They marry. They move into the country, and I go with them. They get a big house. I sit on the shelf in the living room, until she brings home more news. She is having a baby, a girl. She makes her a new room, and puts me on a shelf in it. Her baby is born, and she names her after me. I am beyond happy. She has given me life, she has made me the center of joy in her life.

Her little girl is just like her. She grows and tells me her secrets, but tells her mother first. Her mother is the one to comfort her, to hear her joys. I am happy. She knows what the little girl needs, and she is prepared to give it. I dance still for them both, to see the joy in their faces, even though I am no longer new and shiny, even though I am aging.

She has many more children, both boys and girls. She treats them all well, and all love her, and me. I dance for them every night, after they share their joys and concerns. I am beyond happy, I am a part of their world.

They all grow up and leave. I stay with her and her husband. Years later they bring their children to visit. She is happy. She loves her grandchildren. Her grandchildren listen to me and watch me. They love me also.

Again years past, and then something very sad happens. Her husband dies. She is beyond comfort. She again turns to me. I turn on my old springs, singing and dancing for her. She smiles just for me. Again I wish to come to life and comfort her, but I still can’t. I am far from coming to life. I am dying. I am old and used. I am happy, for my life has been long and good.

In a few more years, she grows sick and takes to bed. Her children come and see her. I stay by her side constantly, playing my now off-tune melodies and dancing slowly on my toes. One night she plays me hour after hour. Finally, when I can play no more, she sits me down. On my finale note, she takes her last breath and dies. I am sad. She was my life, now she is gone. She was my light, my joy. I cannot live without her. So, I die too. I break in a thousand pieces, shattered like my heart. We were always together, we cannot be apart ever. So together we go off into the afterlife. I again see her. I am alive now. I run and hug her. I can comfort her. I am alive with her. I am happy.