My music box is a simple and light wood affair from Japan whose only decoration is a book page of a young girl feeding chicks from her basket. I can't count the number of times that I used to make up stories about the girl in the red handkerchief and her chicks. Sometimes she was going to the market to see the chicks and lost her nerve, or maybe she had found them and was taking them home, or better yet, she was little red riding hood and the chicks had been in her basket on the way to grandmother's house.
My music box is one of the few things I have that remind me of my grandmother. She died when I was 19, nearly 9 years ago, and recently I have begun to forget what her voice sounded like, or what she smelled like. The music box always reminded me and without it's music I was scared I might forget her presence. My husband being the kind man that he is made me realize that the music box didn't have to work for me to remember her, and that she was with me no matter what, and that the music box is just a good reminder not the measure of my memory of her.
Even though the music box is now silent I can still see my grandmother clear as day when I look at it. I love this little piece and I think a trip to the repair shop in the near future is in order.