Boboiboy: Elemental Tales

Of Lullabies, Love and Loss

You feared, at first, that because you loved the mother and son so thoroughly that now there wouldn't be enough love to go around, and you'd either have to give up one of your owners or never love these children who would become part of your life—but now you find that these children bring more love with them, more than enough, and you can still love everyone just fine.

But you remember last time, and you're afraid—afraid that one day, you'll be relegated back to your case, only able to witness crumbs of these children's growth, one day boys, the next day men. You don't want to be locked out of the lives of those you hold dear again. You watch carefully, fearfully, as the babies become toddlers far too quickly, waiting for the day the lullabies start to taper off.

Only—they don't taper off. Why? Because suddenly there are two more infants in the crib, while the last three are still scampering about the nursery. They get orange and cyan ribbons around their wrists, and they bring yet more love with them, and the cycle starts again before it even ends.

Your first owner disappears. Here one day, gone the next. Flowers and gifts and cards on the table. You feel something heavy in the air.

Soon after, the husband also disappears. Your current owner and his children all seem less lively than usual. But the result is that your owner plays your lullaby more often, so you suppose you can't complain.

You're reassured, more so when another pair of infants arrive as the twins are growing, and the triplets move out of the nursery. You're content as your lullaby soothes yet more children, the loneliness but a distant memory.

But after that, more children don't come. You watch with some nervousness, and then anxiety, then fear, as the twins with the green and silver ribbons start toddling about the nursery, and start writing crooked letters and scribbling on the walls, and start rifling through picture books, and still the crib doesn't reappear.

And the same day they go to preschool for the first time, you feel your case being picked up and carried—down the stairs, outdoors, onto something that growls deafeningly. You've only experienced this once before, when your first owner brought you home from the store. Does that mean you're being returned, being sent away from the place that's been your home since forever?

No. The next time the case opens, you see your owner's hands again. Beyond them is an unfamiliar metallic ceiling, and the growl has sunken to a muted rumble—not the music store.

Your owner carries you to a desk next to your case, where a screen projected onto the wall shows the children, all seven of them, gathered in the nursery. The lullaby is played on your strings again for the children that night, even though you have no idea where you are.

You're moved again soon after, and then you're left alone for what must be several days. You start to worry.

But soon enough your owner opens the case again, plays the lullaby through the screen again. You wait a few days again. Your owner plays again. Another few days, another lullaby. Before you realize it, you've fallen into a new routine. Sometimes your owner opens your case in a different place, sometimes you're back home—after a while the children start gathering in a different house—but you can always expect a lullaby before the week is gone. It's not nearly as often as before, but you get used enough to it that you hardly notice the in-between.

Time passes. The children start wearing caps in the colours of their childhood ribbons, while your owner keeps the ribbons themselves on his person. You almost miss the fact that the oldest of the children are as tall as your owner now.

And suddenly—your owner stops calling them. You're still taken out within the week, every week, but the devices are all off and the children are nowhere to be seen. Your owner plays quietly, morosely, with shaking hands. Sometimes, salty drops of water splash onto your curved wooden side.