I felt ashamed for forgetting about her, knowing that she must have been by herself, hoping that someone would come see her again. While I did my best to continue visiting her, I found that life got in the way, putting a barrier between us.
My grandmother rarely got visitors as she grew older. Though I couldn't understand what the boy was singing, there was an understanding that I couldn't explain. Though he wasn't fully in this world, there was a sense of longing and loneliness that was almost tangible. When she sat in it, she would be facing the box. I followed his gaze, and I found that they were on my grandmother's chair, which resided across the room. When the boy opened his honey-coloured eyes, they didn't look at me. Regardless, his voice was angelic, and I found that no matter how bizarre the situation was, I felt calm. It had an old quality to it that simply couldn't be placed in any time. It clearly wasn't English, but yet.it didn't resemble any other language either. This boy's performance was in a language that I couldn't recognize. Oddly enough, that wasn't the strangest thing in my mind. But the boy himself was physically unfocused, his form transparent as the dull light from the nearest window shined on him. The initial panic began to dissipate when I saw that the boy was not focused on me, he simply continued to sing. His attire was that of a time before mine, a uniform white button up overlayed by a large navy coat with gold embroidery and near black shorts. He looked no older than 13, his blond hair swaying softly as he lost himself within the sound. Stumbling backwards and falling on my rear, a gasp escaped me when I looked up to see a young boy sitting atop the box, singing along with the mechanical melody. My heart almost stopped when a voice began to sing as more instruments joined in with the song. Nothing special ever happened, it simply repeated it's tune and existed within the living room.
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I remembered this item very well, as I had often cranked the key for my grandmother so she could hear it's song.
The music was still playing from inside, but I couldn't seem to find a way to open it up and check. Was the box broken? Or maybe it was programmed somehow to play itself at a certain interval? Leaning down in front of it, I tilted my ears towards the heart of it. I was baffled, having never seen something like this happen before. To say that I was speechless was an understatement.
The crank was slowly circulating itself, and the music was coming from within the box. Nothing about it stood out from the other pieces of furniture in the home. On the item's left side was a hand sized key that had become a bit loose over the years, but still worked just fine. "One of my grandmother's prized possessions was what she called a "music machine." It was a tall oak box that resembled a chest of drawers, though there were no openings to be checked.
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