Mistwalker

FIVE Grey

My celebration is simple. I raise my hands, and every music box plays at once.

To other ears, it might be cacophony. Minor keys sob while major keys elate, none of the times deign to match. Each coil runs its own length—some songs ending after a phrase. Others linger, gold notes that swirl in the air around me like dust motes.

In the end, just one tune remains. An old Irish song, and I knew all the words once. I forget them now.

One of my father’s men liked to play it when we sailed home to Boston. He stood in the crow’s-nest with a pipe and played the ballad into the wind.

Of the lyrics, I remember a single line: “It will not be long, love . . .”

Oh, promises. Promises! She looks to the island, and she sees me here. Though I’ve wanted it, longed for it . . . been so achingly aware of it, this is the moment when she’s real. The moment that’s the same for her: when I become real to her, too.

Laughter rolling through me, I raise my hands again. I turn in the gallery, and every music box sings. Again, again, again!