I had discovered a vintage box that somehow showed amazing scenes and items from the past. When I peered into it, I could see scenes of an uncle in action during a war. It was realistic, yet tiny — a strange, magical, and priceless memento of someone I did not know. I imagined this clunky clear plastic brick held infinite memories of the past. Now that I had found it, I could not conceive of life without it.
I may have bumped a corner accidentally and fretted that I had damaged it. In a while, the scene went black, and nothing else came on. I noticed a wet spot on the brick and wondered if it were leaking water and if that were causing the malfunction.
I was anxious to have it repaired, hoping that the functionality and the memories had not leaked out with the water. I gave it to my mother and asked her to take it somewhere for repair, but she put it aside in a place and way that made me afraid that she was simply going to throw it out. I became terribly upset, wishing that I had been more careful if it really were my fault, hopeful that I was wrong about her intentions, and fearful that I was right. Part of me tried to understand that neither memories nor magic is forever.