The Music Box

I am not sure how old I was when dad gave me the music box. My fingers were strong enough to turn the small brass key, but I did not recognise the tune it played. Inside there were pieces of her costume jewellery: a letter D fixed to a black-ribboned bracelet, a brooch in the shape of a leaf. I took the box to college, filled with beads, chunky resin rings from market stalls. Now it holds the tiny footprints of my baby daughter, a w
isp of her hair, the hospital bracelet cut at the end from her lifeless wrist.  


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