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Herbert the Teddy Bear and  Lost Youth







Sometimes I sit and watch her,

admiring the gaps in her baby teeth

where corn comes sliding out at dinner,

causing her to giggle and her

tiny nose, still baby soft,

to wrinkle the dusting of freckles

sprinkled across like cupcake confetti.



When I was little I had the same freckles,

Angel kisses, Dad would call them.



I  watch as she plays

school teacher with her doll- Tammy,

who used to be mine but now

sits an apt pupil at the kitchen table,

while my little sister pushes her

shaggy bangs from her eyes,

licks the berry cool-aide stains from her lips,

and plays serious and civilized.



I saw her playing with my old bear once- Herbert

Nearly felt a twinge of jealousy,

replaced by nostalgia for the toy,

and very nearly a feeling of loss.

When I was a girl I would press his

hand and he would repeat after me.



"I'm the Momma" I would say.

"I'm the Momma" Herbert mimicked.

"No I'm the Momma"

"No I'm the Momma".

Hours of endless fun for me.



Now, Herbert is just another brown bear

with shaggy worn fur and obsidian black eyes

that stare forlornely from the pile of toys.

She will never get to discover his voice,

now long since broken and silenced.



Sometimes I want to grab a big bag

and gather up all of my old toys,

grumpy the stuffed bulldog whose

stuffing is now disproportionately weighing

down his bottom half.

And Cheeto the gray kitty who now

has a mashed face sans whiskers,

but long ago when you tickled her paw would say,

Ha, ha, that tickles.  Though it always sounded like

cheeto cheeto that tickles.



And just as I'm ready to grab these

relics from my childhood and cling fast,

I see my sister recounting stories of the

obstacles of her third grade social life.

I hear her words, her questions even, the mention of

sex and perhaps September Eleventh, and I figure

That perhaps she will need these toys

more than I ever did.