The spring is still working, Chopin's nocturne Op. 9 N0.2 is still playing, the gears are rotating, but the ballerina has fallen on one side.
The first sign of your passing was met by the collapse of our most beloved dancer, once living inside her snow-laden world of an old, antique piece of solid glass —
a Parisian snow globe with ceramic base and a built-in music box.
I remember her grace and poise as she spun effortlessly on a turning disc when you had first gifted her to me.
So lovely in art, form and rhythm, how could she not outlive this impermanence that routinely claims us all?
The day I lost you, I lost my ballerina; the empty disc simply goes round and round. There is no figurine with raised arms, no tiny feet resting on tippytoes.
I often wonder how many hands she had exchanged and how many eyes neither saw nor heard beyond the sturdy glass.
If I could decipher her language, perhaps, I could have brought an end to the loneliness seeping through her downcast face
all the while praying — she would choose life over death as the kinder end.
