My brother rambled about going back to therapy –
things my mother wanted to hear.
Then excitedly moved on to other topics,
maybe a job at the second-hand store,
and something else he’d found there.
He disappeared into another room,
carried it back with him,
glowing in the afternoon light, tulip-shaped, an angel’s trumpet
hand-painted with flowers, ruby enamel
beaten out of brass.  He wound the crank.
A scratching, spinning voice sang back at us .
We could hear the distance of 100 years,
And my brother cried.  He said it was just so beautiful.