Red Curtains

A room full of beauty, I thought. Only in the early stages of growing, so much room for me here. Yet it was packed with things, filling and overflowing with crimson red. “Curtains, they used to be curtains?”
“On a big stage,” my grandfather said, propping my small body onto his weak knees, “these used to be my best friends.”
I was so confused; Grandma walked in, her wrinkles just starting to show. She smiled at me and put on a CD of a beautiful voice, a soprano ringing from the speakers.
Say you love me every waking moment,
turn my head with talk of summertime,
Say you need me with you now and always,
Promise me that all you say is true,
that’s all I ask of you.

“And I used to sing with those. If you put them up to your ear, you can hear my voice.” I picked them up out of Grandpa’s hands, touching them to my face.
“They feel like love.” I said, “They sound like it, too.”
Grandma replied with a nod and words that sounded like music, “Love makes up everything, and never forget it.”

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