Lucid Waking

Archive for June 23rd, 2006

The Music Box

            The sky was mauve, now, and the crickets had started their orchestration to the sound of her patent leather heals sharply clicking across the scratched wood floor. She absent-mindedly brushed the light switch and lavender hued lights slowly brightened. Tiny specks of stars peeked through the clouds as she bent down to brush dust off the piano bench before sitting down to gaze out the window. She glanced at her reflection in the glace and rested her head on her relaxed fist.
            “Mother? Is something wrong?” a young woman with cinnamon hair and blue eyes, poked her head around the corner into the room. She was wearing a navy and white polka dotted dress that blossomed neatly around her knees.
            “No dear, I’m fine,” the woman smiled, diminishing wrinkles on her forehead and accentuating ones around her mouth and eyes. Her hazel eyes were the only bit of color left and stood out with her silver hair, which were in soft ringlets around her shoulders.
            The woman nodded and left the room. The crickets had calmed in their chirping and the lavender lights were now a pure white. She walked towards a small door in the wall behind the piano and unlocked it with a small silver key. She slipped off her shoes, leaving them neatly beside the doorframe, and closed the door behind her. She pulled the silk ribbon in the middle of the closet and turned on the normal light of a dying light bulb. She walked past cases of instruments she never knew how to play and past several hundred records placed on shelves to the ceiling. She stopped at the phonograph and moved it aside, pulled out a sage satin box and opened it up to pull out the pair of Pointe shoes she hadn’t used in years and she brushed them off. The cardboard was still in perfect condition and besides the slight fraying of the ribbons they were just about new. She tried one on her foot and looked down; her old companion sat expectantly on her foot looking up at her.
            “No,” she whispered, taking off the shoe, “I’m much too old.”
            She replaced the pink satin slipper and moved over in front of an ordinary cardboard box. Opening it revealed countless satin and netting costumes of any color imaginable.  She nostalgically brushed the tutus, closing her eyes and going over every stitch.
            “Mother?” she heard her daughter call, far away. The door was still shut, but the light from the bulb inside shone under it, beckoning. Her daughter smiled and sat down at the piano and started to play. The cracked and sun faded keys pushed out unfortunate notes with every touch in a tired old way.
            “It was young too, once.” The elderly woman said closing the door behind her and slipping on her shoes. “It used to dance with the rest of us.”
            “I don’t know,” her daughter said walking towards her, “I think it still is, in its soul. And it will never stop until the end of time. The angels dance, too.”
            The elder woman smiled. “I hope so.”
            The daughter followed her mother out of the room and shut off the light. The white turned to lavender as it dimmed until it was completely off. The crickets continued to chirp outside, orchestrating nothing but dancing memories, using the moonlight as a spotlight.
            The next morning, the daughter found her mother sitting on the piano bench, plucking out a tune. The timid and staccato notes sung out and filled the space like drops of water in a pond.
            “That’s strange. This old piano hasn’t sounded like this in years. I wonder who tuned it.”
            The daughter walked over and looked at the instrument. “Hmmm, it’s been dusted, too.”
            “The floor was waxed, it looks brand new. Did you do this?” Mrs. Charity said pointing at the floor.
            Her daughter shook her head and opened the piano bench, which was propped open by something. “Look,” she said, pulling out a pure white feather. It glistened in the sunlight and cast lavender refractions on the ceiling.
            “Angels,” The elderly woman said. She turned around and left the room. “I think it’s time for breakfast, Charlotte. Let’s leave the angels to their work. They’ve quite a bit to do to give that room life again.”
            The next week, she explored the closet and found every record alphabetized, every instrument polished and every costume hung up on display. She smiled and locked the door again, leaving the silver key in the piano bench as usual. When she came back later in the evening, she left the lights turned off and watched the orange and purple sky blend into blue. As she turned towards the door, a glimmer caught her eye and she flipped towards the piano. Sitting with a neatly tied silver bow was a box wrapped in pink paper. She picked it up and carried it to the kitchen.
            “Well, open it,” Charlotte said sitting down in a chair opposite her mother. She slipped the ribbon off the box and ripped the paper. Royal blue velvet faced her and she slipped the top off pulling out a music box. A tall ballerina dressed in white with hazel eyes and dark brown hair stood on her toe as a marionette. Her other leg was pointed up and bent towards Charlotte. Charlotte turned the key in the back and the music box gently presented the theme to Swan Lake in a flowing theme.
            “That’s me, Charlotte. That’s who I used to be.”
            “It’s still you, Mom. Just not the physical you.”
            The elder woman smiled and looked up at the sky. “Thank you.”
            When the song finished, Charlotte turned the key again and the ballerina change positions and her tutu changed colors as the music box played the theme of Sleeping Beauty.
            “Very impressive,” Charlotte said as she went to answer the door. She came back with a feather in her hand and placed it on the table, before walking to the sink to wash the dishes. Over the din of the faucet, the tiny music box cranked out crescendos and decrescendos of the beautiful overture. Beyond all that, one could still hear the crickets continuing their songs outside to each and every twinkling star.