The Carousel

Passed down from my mother’s mother’s mother.
A keepsake forever,
passed from the old to young; generational.
With such careful hands, such delicate fragile hands.
One elderly hand to another, it was given to me.
Horses frozen in mid-air; dancing statues.
Such frail horses curved and shaped to perfection,
Less one, gone forever.
Pink roses connecting by vines, twisting and turning,
Roses handcrafted from Italy as from where it came and ancestors too.
It was taken all over the world, from France to England to Germany and Scotland
Where one young lady met her true love, my great grandfather.
One little key waiting to be turned …
But broken, never to wind again.
But someday I will pass it on,
One elderly hand more.