Third glance: Music box.

A music box.
That’s all it is; to most people at least.
At first glance, it’s nothing special, maybe something you might find at an empty garage sale. Something you would skim over and then look back on.
At second glance, it’s still nothing special.
To most people, at least.
At third glance, it gets picked up, by an energetic woman wanting to surprise her niece with a gift.
It gets held by a child. Disappointed, at first, before she winds the box.
Before she hears that song and before she knows what it is.
Before she grows up, and abandons that curiosity and naiveness.
Each chime, for me, is a memory from younger then.
Seven years ago. A time when I lived my days in a wide, overgrown garden.
A time of daisy chains, dangling swings hanging from a trees,
A music box, winding repeatedly over and over, until I was tired of the tune.
Even now. The swing dusted with cobwebs, and the daisy chains long forgotten,
The music box has not been.
It stays the same. Dusted, paint already dulled.
But nevertheless, still the same.
The same winding tune. The same tinkling bell.
The same girl holding it, because after all these years, she hasn’t changed either