I turned it over in my hand. A small plastic trinket- how many years had it been? I received it when just a child. From the most benign of places- a patron of my parents’ store had placed it in my adolescent palm instead of the customary nickel (and cheek pinch) the other shoppers consistently bestowed upon me. It was a small grocery. An independent grocery. I spent my early years sitting on the countertop greeting those shoppers as they checked out. My old man restocking shelves, seemingly without end, turning every can to face perfectly forward. He took pride in their business. And my mother- behind the register, greeting each customer with me. My parents were proud of each other. Any time their eyes met, they couldn’t help but exchange smiles. Some of my fondest memories are from that store. Especially when my father would lock the front door at end of day and instead of continuing to work, would ask my mother: “May I have this dance?” To which she always accepted and to which there was never any music.

I vividly remember the day this silly little musical instrument came into my life. It was just as any other day. I saw the customer come in, look about the store, put a couple of items into their basket. I remember noticing their clothes were worn. Dirty even. When they brought the items up for checkout, they were just five cents short- five cents meant a little more back then. I’m sure my mother would have forgiven the deficit, but before she could I reached into the chest pocket of my overalls and brandished one shiny nickel, which I had been given that very morning. “Here you go!” I exclaimed. Eyes welling, the patron replied with: “I can’t accept that- you earned that money. It’s yours.” “People just give these to me, all I do is sit here. You can have this one.” I replied. The welling turned into a tear from each eye and rolled down their face into the cracks of a newly formed smile. “Thank you. Thank you. You have a very considerate child.” They directed toward my mother. My mother, who’s hand had been covering her mouth in adoration and in pride at my actions, responded: “I really do.” While she bagged up the few items the patron leaned toward me and said: “I must give you something in return- here.” They put in my hand this small plastic kazoo. “Always keep this near.” They said. “Its magic.” My eyes widened in amazement and my jaw dropped. They put a finger to their mouth: “shhh,” they said, “its a secret.” I nodded and put the tiny bobble in my chest pocket whose home had once been that nickel’s.

I remember. I believed that little toy magic for a lifetime- in kid years- but as I grew I found it to be nothing more than just that- a toy. Until in high school, our dog died. It was her time, but that didn’t make it any easier. That dog was my companion. We adventured. We played. It slept in my bed almost every night of its life. That loss, stacked upon teenage emotions, it was the worst thing that had happened to me up to that point. And one night, sitting at my desk, unable to do my homework, the kazoo was there. I hadn’t thought of it, even seen it for years, but it was there. I raised it to my lips and hummed. It made a silly sound, but a sound I solely associated with my younger years, our grocery, and happiness. And I smiled.

I hadn’t realized I lost track of it until, once again, it appeared. This time after my first love. It worked for a short time, but as young love goes, it didn’t last. But there, again, was the kazoo. And again, it made a sound only it can make, and it conjured happiness, however briefly, that only it can.

And so it seemed to go. Not every time I felt hardship, mind you. But the times I truly needed to smile- heartbreak, financial issues, death, whenever I needed to be reminded of happiness, the kazoo was there.

Now well aged and well lived, it appearing more than a dozen times, I could not tell you where I keep it. Because, I’m not sure I keep it at all. If I look for it, I cannot find it. But when times are dim, when I need joy, or a spark, when I need hope- It appears.

If you were now to ask me if this small gift of gratitude lives up to the secret it was told to hold, if it is indeed magic- I would say yes. To hear it, you may think me silly, just as I once thought of this small plastic trinket. But- what is magic after all, if not just a belief? A belief that there is more to this life. That there are things that will make you wonder. Things that will surprise you and spark your curiosity and impassion you to press onward. Things that will simply make you smile. Yes, there is magic in this world. And yes, it sometimes comes in the form of a small, plastic, kazoo.