Ballerina

The train door opens. A wave of people spew forth like a wave and she is caught. Their sharp suits and sharp tongues pick at the threads of her coat and a small child snaps an apple scented bubble that tickles devilishly at her nose. It's almost time for the home-time bell to clang and she's climbing stairs - little leg muscles straining under her weight, her little feet tapping a song out on the tiled floor. And in an instance she is a music note caught up in the song of the underground. She adds rhythm to the mix of talent, a soundless vibration, a hum in the backdrop only noticeable if it fell short.

And, oh! how it falls. The little ballerina  loses grip of her music box spring and falls with a clatter to the ground - no velvet cushioned boxes are big enough to catch her, not anymore. She grows exponentially with each passing turn of her key and suddenly she is out of sync with the tune and out of time with the world. Her bun-topped head rests soundly on the step and it is only when her hum becomes a clang do people notice the missing beat.

Gasps and loud voices chatter - the song of the underground ceases for a bridge. They place gentle hands on her neck and test her life, caress her with urgent whispers that she rise again and play. They don't know what to do when her rhythm comes back weak and irregular. There is no battery to replace or recharge so they hold her still, reinsert her key and wind her back up to standing. A few test the melody and move forward. She fits back in, a little quieter, and the beat picks up. All that's left is hope they wound her far enough to get home.

Once there, it doesn't matter if the music box slams shut.