• It sits on the shelf, just low enough for her little arms to reach. A small mahogany box, carved with many different flowing likes and flower shapes is caressed with smooth hands. Winding the back, she opens the lid and watch as the little flower popped out of the bottom and slowly unfold, twirling around slowly to the nana lulling her to sleep. As her eyes droop, the flower’s movements slow down, the white petals fold back in, and the whole blossom disappearing back into the little engraved box. Every night, the orchid, new and magnificent, is the girl’s companion, her joy. Its ethereal flower shines with her fascination and a numinous mystery. Its elegant tune floats over the sleepy form of the small child, blanketing her in a swathe of soothing dreams.

    Years later, the music box sits on the same shelf, well within reach for her not so little arms. The box opens with a little creak, developed after years of use. The same elegant lullaby floats through the room, easing the girl’s troubled mind. Tears wash down her face; the tune, trying to comfort her, soothes the ache in her soul. The music skips, the flower slightly bent, showing signs of tear from its many years. However, it continues on, playing the same elegant nana; there in effort to relieve the suffering always present in life.

    Moved to a desolate spot on the desk by the window, the old music box sits wide open. Its flower, bent and discolored, wilted by time. The elegant tune has long since finished its last performance as the dark box stares forlornly at the empty bed, the open window, the candle flickering on the sill in remembrance of the soul forever lost. A few papers rustle with the wind; the flower sways. With no one to hear, it pours out one last note, low and resolute; el fin.