Margaret Walks Across the High School Stage on a Warm June Morning
“We were too busy with Arthur and the paperwork,” I said. “And the move back from the motel.”
He lifted the lid, and the tiny brass cylinder inside began to turn, its metal teeth striking the comb to play the first thin notes of the old lullaby Olivia used to listen to before she went to sleep. The sound was clear and light, filling the small bedroom with a melody that felt both very old and very near.
As the cylinder turned, a small drawer at the bottom of the box clicked open, sliding out about an inch from the mahogany base. Inside was a piece of white notebook paper, folded into a tight square and yellowed slightly at the edges.
“Is that the note?” Brian asked, his voice dropping.
“Yes,” I said.
I picked up the square of paper, my fingers recognizing the crisp feel of the lined sheet she had torn from her binder. I unfolded it slowly, the crease lines splitting the blue ink where she had written three sentences in her large, looping hand.
“Read it, Margaret,” Brian said.
I looked at the words, the ink still dark against the white background.
