He lies now in her memory bin,
chocolate and cream,
sandwiched between her
daughter’s board books and her
son’s lambswool comforter.
Not as plush as in the picture,
that hand-tinted photo of
the two-year-old girl
holding him, silky-new,
not yet smelling of lost youth’s dust.
She looked passively into the camera,
just inks of black, white and gray
until the tinter stroked her into
a peach and brunette beauty,
her hazel eyes disguised as brown.
When anxiety would slink across
the bedroom floor’s shadows
and threaten to swallow her,
she’d reach out to Teddy’s
silky fur, to pick and pluck,
leaving her tears on his tummy.
Until now, so many years on,
he’s bald as grandpa used to be,
got cataracts on those rolly eyes,
and no place to soak in
the tears from grown-up fears.
I don’t think he minded much
being the soft sacrifice
for her child-despair,
losing his fur to comfort
the small and meek.
Even in his nakedness,
he still seems to whisper,
that hugs are good,
that forgiveness is a given,
that love is quietly eternal.
© 2008 Joanne Sprott