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At dinner Thursday night, I saw a man walking into the restaurant who looked a lot like my father. I had the same reaction I’ve had for the last eight years. Every time I saw someone who looked like him, I thought he had found me and was coming to confront me.

It took me a couple of moments to remember that it couldn’t be my father this time — because my father was dead and cremated.

I suspect it’s going to take a long time for me to accept that he’s dead and that he can’t show up at some unexpected moment to scold me or tell me I’ve done something wrong.

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The tiny music box has no monetary value. It probably cost a couple of dollars when it was new. It’s just a novelty, really, not a real music box. You turn the hand crank and it plays “Happy Birthday.” That’s it.

But as I experienced another birthday today, nothing made me happier — if only briefly — than this little piece of cheap metal and plastic.

Why? It has nothing to do with the device itself. There are a million similar things out there which I wouldn’t even notice. So why this one?

It was a birthday gift from a woman who used to love me. It was part of a box of whimsical delights that she spent an afternoon carefully selecting for me in the past. I still have the box and the music-maker and a few other things.

I keep them because such tiny objects have the power to hold onto love — and playing that silly little box allowed me to feel loved by her again. Just for a minute.

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