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(This isn't fic, it's true. Just a freewrite.)
My mother gave me a music box yesterday; it’s wooden and simple and filled with dried rose petals. When I was young, it was in the room I moved into in the house we moved into in England. Inside, it says To Bert with Love, Christmas 1949. My mother told me I loved it when I was younger, and I can remember that like a song I heard years ago, the melody faint and the words long forgotten. I wonder who Bert was. I wonder, I cannot help but wonder, if he was in the war so few years before, if it was given him by a lover or a wife or a mother or father. Whoever it was, they were close enough that there was no need to sign a name. It’s me, the words say all this time later from where they’re carved into the wood.
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My mother gave me a music box yesterday; it’s wooden and simple and filled with dried rose petals. When I was young, it was in the room I moved into in the house we moved into in England. Inside, it says To Bert with Love, Christmas 1949. My mother told me I loved it when I was younger, and I can remember that like a song I heard years ago, the melody faint and the words long forgotten. I wonder who Bert was. I wonder, I cannot help but wonder, if he was in the war so few years before, if it was given him by a lover or a wife or a mother or father. Whoever it was, they were close enough that there was no need to sign a name. It’s me, the words say all this time later from where they’re carved into the wood.
( Read more... )
