with fog in the room
a mist, gray and churning
thick in the gloom.
And from the vacant dawn light
streaming through the glass
I heard a little voice say
“I am the last.”
And the clouds rolled back
to reveal a memory faded, worn
a frayed little figure
well loved and torn.
Leaning on a black bag
marked GoodWill Donations
with a tuft and limp sag
and round eyes to beckon.
And the little bear
for it was an old toy
came up on it’s stubby legs
proof that a puppet could become a real boy.
And I gaped in wonder
and amazed, astound!
As my little companion
hopped to the ground.
And I gave him a hand
to my pillow side
and felt him warm
and heard him sigh.
“I am the last of your childhood trifles”
he told me with sorrowful want
“I’ve done everything that I was able”
“but now I’ve become gross and gaunt”
“My stuffings all gone to one side”
“My dye has worn through the hide.”
“My eyes are all foggy, my ears dip and droop.”
“and I smell of your mothers potato-cabbage soup.”
“But I remember all your secrets, your promises, and doubts”
“I’ve counted all your teardrops, your fears, and your shouts.”
“Don’t toss me away because I’m old and worn”
“I am a record kept since the time you were born.”
And for a moment, looking at the years that had passed
wrapped in the gray folds of time that won’t last
I remembered a childhood that seems so far away
and he’s been by my bedside ever since that day.