Inkdrops in Storybooks

My good old Teddy

I haven’t seen him in years.

I found him on accident,
There,
Hiding on the backroom shelf,
Still soft and light and fluffy
In the way only childhoods can be.

Yet the years show.

His bright button eyes are scratched,
Tearful cracks running over the dull shine,
His once soft chest is ripped,
The stuffing spilling onto the hardwood floor.

I stitch him up.

He is imperfect,
The way all futures are,
With cracks and patches and stiches.
Yet he is whole.
So am I.

He never goes back to the backroom shelf.