Drum

Grandad had that drum up on the wall his whole life, and it felt like I spent my whole childhood staring at it. The fading paint, the real hide stretched so taut it looked alive. I imagined all the things it would summon if I played it: friendly genies in the day, strange monsters when I spent a night on his sofa. Then one winter it was time to clear the place out, and I touched the drum for the first time, to lift it down from its bent nail. I struck it once with the pads of my fingers, and the dry skin split, and nothing came.