Fixing a memory

When I was very small and very sick my father came home one day with a present. I loved the music box with the dancing ballerina and the beautiful tune she was dancing to. I kept my treasures in the box, medals and souvenirs and secret notes. When I got older and moved out of my parents’ house the music box moved with me. It didn’t work anymore and I didn’t change the content but every time I packed my bags and started a new life in a new city it moved with me.

I didn’t take it to Barcelona, the city I started living in occasionally almost two years ago. A city where I started dancing, I’d never really done that before. Sometimes I wondered if it was a way to deal with the sadness of leaving, of saying goodbye forever.

Today, back in Amsterdam in my old room in the apartment where I don’t live anymore but my things are still kept safe, my eyes fell on the music box. I opened it and the ballerina was on her back on the bottom. I decided to fix the box. Like my father would have, the man who could make and repair everything.

It took a little bit of effort but in no time the ballerina was back on her feet, swirling around on that tune I thought I’d forgotten. But I hadn’t.

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