In the living room

In my family’s living room, I reminisce about an old music machine and its feeling that I took for granted.

In the living room

I sometimes hear 

Faint phantoms of music—

Past susurrations 

Soothing the silent space 

Between my brain and two ears.

They spring from the mantle—

A pocket-sized red box

Next to fake flowers and a mini altar

Housing incense and a metal statue of 

Guanyin who sits with her eyes closed,

Left hand holding a gourd,

Right hand raised chest level 

In Karana Mudra.

But the music machine is long gone—

The years took their toll,

The energy ran out,

The body now buried in a landfill,

Far away from any listeners.

Yet I sometimes believe

It is still here.