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Somewhere my love (ding ding ding ding)... I found the pink musical doll, wedged behind my desk, cobweb-covered, blue ribbon bow undone, and neck cocked in a near-fatal rictus. A Christmas gift from a cousin years ago, I've kept her out of guilt; I've never liked her much.
I thought I'd play her once more before I threw her out. I held her in my palm and wound the key, and listened as she played her music-box tune, the first two lines of that song, rolling her head slowly to the music.
She was begging for her life.
Her french-knot eyes were pleading and the heart-shaped felt appliqué of her mouth spoke mute volumes. I saw her little cloth hand resting on my thumb and felt a jolt of recognition. I put her on the desk instead, uprighting her as she overbalanced, and I stood still, sole judge of this appeal.
She was dusty and bedraggled, playing those same two lines of tinkly music, and she radiated sadness. She was pleading, but all she could do was play a song and roll her neck, and only that as long as she was wound. The music slowed and in the silence between notes the sadness grew so loud I wanted to scream to drown it out. Finally she wound down, powerless at last, eloquent unto her final, weary ding. She sat, unable to move, head drooped, one woollen curl unravelled, exhausted.
She has been reprieved, and sits there still.
( In which I am traumatised )
I thought I'd play her once more before I threw her out. I held her in my palm and wound the key, and listened as she played her music-box tune, the first two lines of that song, rolling her head slowly to the music.
She was begging for her life.
Her french-knot eyes were pleading and the heart-shaped felt appliqué of her mouth spoke mute volumes. I saw her little cloth hand resting on my thumb and felt a jolt of recognition. I put her on the desk instead, uprighting her as she overbalanced, and I stood still, sole judge of this appeal.
She was dusty and bedraggled, playing those same two lines of tinkly music, and she radiated sadness. She was pleading, but all she could do was play a song and roll her neck, and only that as long as she was wound. The music slowed and in the silence between notes the sadness grew so loud I wanted to scream to drown it out. Finally she wound down, powerless at last, eloquent unto her final, weary ding. She sat, unable to move, head drooped, one woollen curl unravelled, exhausted.
She has been reprieved, and sits there still.
( In which I am traumatised )