Published:
October 24, 2024
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It worked.
That was my initial thought when I arrived in my new consciousness.
Ben, it worked!
I tried to give him a sign, to no avail. He stared at me as I took in my familiar surroundings from an unfamiliar perspective.
Ben leaned in. I anticipated his touch, a stroke of my tiny cheek, reaching to hold my little hand. Instead, he picked me up and wound my box.
I began to twirl (as if I always knew how), to a twinkling rendition of Tchaikovsky’s Swan Lake.
Babe, please, acknowledge me.
“Greta?” he asked.
* * *
Ben had been hesitant from the start. He wasn’t sold on the concept. Could human consciousness transfer to an inanimate object? The pamphlet guaranteed it. Testimonials lined the walls of the office. Their marketing was convincing, and what option did we have?
With my terminal diagnosis, I was adamant. We paid the hefty sum, signed the paperwork, and set forth on the task of appointing my new vessel.
I chose the music box, a gift from Ben on our first anniversary. With gold trim and a delicate ballerina, it was dazzling.
We both loved the ballet.
“It’s perfect, Ben. I can dance with you forever.”
* * *
Over a decade later, I regret everything.
Forever is too long.
After months of one-sided conversation, Ben gave up. In a fit of frustration, he hurled the music box across the room, snapping my winding key in half.
Not only am I alone, now I can’t dance.
I’m a decoration.
I sit, stoic, on the mantel.
Ben remarried.
An observer of my lost life.
He has a daughter.
Today, she came home in ballet shoes.

Copyright 2024 - SFS Publishing LLC
Tiny Dancer
If given the opportunity to dance forever, would you take it?
Gail Maitland

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