snowglobes

I still shake up my snowglobes and watch the white flecks of "snow" fall to cover the village/teddy bear/swan/basket of flowers that are surrounded by the transparent orb of glass.

There's some sense of comfort in winding up the metal spring that releases a soaring but cliche melody of delicate plinking sounds.

I always liked the drowsy ending of the music box, when the key turns slower and the notes regress into a ritardando that slowly slices away like sheet music lifted gently in the wind, whipping away into oblivion.

The sharp click that sounds when the music stops always jerked me out of my dream-like reverie, sending me crashing back down to my time-warp of a childhood room.

I broke one of my sister's snowglobes by bouncing on her bed when it was sitting, inexplicably, on her quilt, sending it soaring to the swirling wooden floor. The crashing emitted a cacaphony of dissonant notes, scaring me almost as much as the shattering of glass.

The water ran out slowly and seeped through the cracks in the floor. Little grainy white pieces clung to the figure of a kitten, and the jagged edges of the once-perfect sphere gave me an unsettling feeling.

Most of all, I could not forget those horrible notes.

It's funny how the most beautiful treasure, when broken, can be the most awful sight.