november lost in little glass jars, sprouting words and things.
***
as with every other girl from her generation, she owned a small pink jewellery box. the outside was covered in soft, faux velvet; the inside was cushioned in soft, faux satin. when she opened it, a dainty ballerina spun on herself—a pirouette, in fourth position—, to a familiar music box melody. there was a minuscule, oval mirror behind her, and as she danced it seemed as though she was only dancing for herself. eventually, the music stopped playing and the ballerina lost her will to twirl.
the girl never kept any jewellery there, for she was just a child, and the jewellery she wore was on her at all times: delicate hoops with turquoise stones; a thin, perpetually tangled gold chain; copper barrettes. in her jewellery box, she only kept a perry ellis perfume sample she had torn out of a magazine. she rubbed it on her green wool sweater and her wrists frenetically before she went outside, eager to please one clueless boy.
she doesn’t remember when she got the jewellery box or when she lost it. it was one of those things that were a part of her childhood, until she was no longer a child and it was no longer a part of her. as she grew older, few things followed her around—a panda bear with a glued-on nose, a pierrot journal that no longer locked, paintings and drawings her mother had stuffed into a worn-out box.
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