abrade /əˈbrād/

When I was very young, Alf was very old; a friend of my grandmother. “Alf has given you a gift,” she said to me one day. “You won’t appreciate it now. But you’ll have to take good care of it and you will appreciate it later when you’re older.”

It was a very old wooden music box. It played four old songs. I don’t know what songs they are. There was an image on its top. A girl, I think, and a Christmas tree. And possibly a cat. The image had paled, wearing away; a ghost of itself.

I am somewhat unnerved to realize that I don’t know the current whereabouts of my music box. I hope my mother has it. My grandmother was not often mistaken, I think, but she was wrong about the music box. I appreciated it immediately.