The Sleeping Wall

Jane M. Downs
I wind my music box. Inside the glass, a ballerina wheels around to carousel music, her tutu a
stiff pink cloud. Her tiny perfect arm curves upward. One leg forever bends behind her. The key
turns. I never let it stop.
Her eyes close and it all vanishes. She must not forget anything.
Cream-white paper stacked on Father’s mahogany desk. On the chair his sweater exhales dark
scents of cigar and roasted meat. A photograph taken the day he left for Europe, before his
ruined leg. Tall and crisp in his army uniform, Mother’s tailored white suit. Behind them, bare
trees against winter sky.
Their sons are animal-like in their investigations. They love the things they trap and keep
in jars. White-bellied spiders. Small cocoons. Fireflies that beat against the glass.
Inside the silver frame, Father’s wide smile, the jaunty slant of hat. Mother lifts her face to gaze
into his eyes. His arm protects her. His eyes adore her. The carousel music slows. I turn the key.
Yellow moon. Summer ends. Fields and orchards wait to be relieved. She hears a raccoon
screech. Rain gurgles in the gutters.
The rat-tat-tat of mother’s heels. Hands flutter, charms clatter. She lifts the piano hood. Her
music sings inside me, and my heart races. Her music holds me, and I am inside it.
10
On the mantle a photograph. Philip beside her on the dock. Michael on her hip. The lake
a shining disk between sky and earth. She missed the moment of her perfection, but the
camera paid attention. The shutter opened and shut. Her image caught in the dark chamber.
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A sea, a swarm, all the world a single mass in motion. She tries to slow it. She smokes. She
drinks. She counts the clock’s chimes.
She walks in the meadow where rain has bred yellow hawkweed and wild iris. Michael
runs to her; a feather floats in his hand.
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