Chimes

For many years, in my room growing up, above my bed, hung a set of chimes my grandmother owned.

They were old fish scales — coaxed into shapes and shellacked to prevent them from cracking and wearing from the weather.

They hung on her front porch, where the breeze would coax the chimes into movement — into music.
They weren’t like pipe chimes — instead they sounded like little shards of glass that banged and clanked together delicately. Hand-strung and off white, they had an pearl glow to them in the early evening that I remember staring up at in between watching my grandmother knitting something.
I  used to look up at those chimes over my head and long to hear them dance again, yet I could not. I dare not reach up to make them play.
I just couldn’t disturb the memory of those chimes. The ones that always rung out, but never will again.
The breeze has gone. And they just hang.
Wishing for that front porch.
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