The Music Box

We are the only ones at the café.
You, me –
And the barista.
Too young to drink coffee;
She offered you warm milk.
You nodded, then smiled.

We walked towards the corner table –
And sat where rays of the autumn sun
Peered through the window.

As I observed the reflection of light in my cup of coffee,
You rummaged through your backpack –
Searching for what you thought you had lost.

But with a deep sigh of relief
You whispered in delight:

“I found it!”

You placed a wooden music box –
With a ceramic lid of painted flowers on the table,
And summoned me with your tiny fingers to wind it up.

“My Favorite Things” played.

We both smiled to the old familiar tune.

I closed my eyes;
You did too.
And in the back of our eyelids,
Somewhere in the vast darkness –
You held my hand.
I squeezed yours.

The barista tapped me on my shoulder:

“You left your card at the register.”

I thanked her with a smile.

I stared at the empty chair.
You were gone.
But the music box was still there.

I hummed to the tune:

“I simply remember my favorites things,
And then I don’t feel so bad.”