Childhood Memory

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Childhood memories

resonate

lyric-less songs, distant and lonely.

I hum and tap my foot along

to the deep, lost forever words

and smile.

Sad smiles

reflect in reminiscent eyes.

Reflections in mirrors

die

by and by.

And the delicate glass in heirloom frame

cracks and dims from unsmudged gleam

to tarnished, grim opaque.

These were the days

once celebrated,

once treasured, once dreamt of,

once real.

Here hides a chest

dust-coated, stained wood, brass lock,

its key long ago misplaced.

Rusty hinges and stressed grains

squeal and groan

as I pick the lock

out of memories of the glory days

of young, proud ingenuity.

The lid rises, a gasp lingers,

quivering in thick, sultry attic atmosphere.

Fingers graze and ignite

flashbacks.

Thrown back

into rascal age,

the voiceless music begins again,

this time from the twist

and soft clank of an ancient music box knob.

Dainty notes cushion a restless mind,

a porcelain ballerina spinning on her miniature pedestal tugs me in.

Her painted face traps me,

closes my eyes,

then opens them to my old world again.

Reflections in mirrors

rise

by and by.

Blithe smiles

draw me home.

I lay my head on familiar, worn pillows

as starlight shimmers through clear window panes,

and hold close

a ragged doll,

her clothes sewn by my hand.

Her painted face I tuck against

my steady beating heart.





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