Resting on the table made from the Peltogyne tree, more commonly called Purple Heart, was the tiny glockenspiel. It has been there long enough that one could measure the time with a simple wipe of a finger across the dusty bars. A fine instrument, one that brought melodies to the ear and smiles to the faces of many football fans waiting for the second half. Those were the little glockenspiel's happiest days.
He didn't get to attend college with his player. High school days, and marching under the Friday night lights had been replaced by lectures and beers with friends. The little glockenspiel didn't figure into those plans, and so, he sat, on the tiny table, with a song unsung in his tiny heart.
From the table into a box he went, and the time passed. His little steel bars yearned to ring out, especially middle c. The tiny glockenspiel became resigned to his dark lonely world. He could hear things on on outside, he knew that there were people moving about, he heard them talking. He heard the voice of his player now and again.
He heard his player talking with her parents; she had brought a boy home to meet them. She showed the boy her room. He teased her about her posters and the band uniform hanging in her closet.
The lid of the box opened, the player took out the tiny glockenspiel, and rested it on her round belly. She hammered a few bars and sang, "Hush little baby..." then whispered, "This will be yours one day," while she rubbed her belly. The notes were clear; the glockenspiel was, for the first time in years, happy. She polished it, treasured it, and never put it in a box or out of her mind again.
Brian Meeks has been blogging since January of 2010. You can read his stories and other posts at Extremely Average