Broken

Tiny Molecules

Often under duress, siblings become unlikely Valentines.

“Broken” appeared in Tiny Molecules (Issue 5) 6/20/2020.

Thank you, editors and thank you for reading.

Be safe out there.

This image is from Pixabay and was published prior to July 2017 under the Creative Commons CC0 1.0 Universal Public Domain Dedication license.

Broken

Father gives you the Love Story music box for your anniversary. Two lovers entwined for eternity revolving on a sturdy base. Silver gilds the hard bodies, muscles chiseled with burnished youth. Youngest traces sinews up and beyond to heaven. Inappropriate, you scold and slap his hand. Father centers the steely nakedness on the piano for anyone to see.  People less uptight than your mother, he says. I wind the music box afternoons after school and play duet.

It’s date night. I’m thirteen, old enough to sit the monsters. You mother-babble the boys. She’s in charge, listen to your sister. You turn on me. Anything happens, it’s your fault. Father winds the music box on the way out. Brother sneaks a closer look at the ceramic nudes. He climbs the piano bench and bobbles the hand off to Youngest. Love fractures against a field of royal blue wall-to-wall carpet. I look out the window. The car backs from the drive. I’m in charge. We scramble for super glue.

Later, you discover the broken music box. A willful scheme, a bald-faced lie, you say and ground me for a month. Sometimes, I think you were more angry at you than me.  After all, you dusted the piano for months, oblivious to the break. The boys and I think the chip was the tip off, beneath the base where we thought you wouldn’t notice. Like you and Father and your own broken Love Story.

For my brothers …