the reindeer

with a missing eye, you got me through childhood.
with no stuffing left—I hugged it all out of you—
a toy had never been so loved. you got left
at the grocery store, in the movie theatre, in the wash
and still, you were always by my side. in the end
you weighed barely a pound, but all my love and insecurities
I poured onto you, so that you could barely hold yourself together.

In the end, you were basically a ball of lint. I almost screamed when I discovered a hole right through your stomach the size of a needle, and then you shed the pounds like water pouring off my back in the tub. I tried to plump you up with small stones and I asked my mom to sew you back up, but that didn’t work either. You were masticated.

I made a bed for you
on the table next to mine. made out of straw,
it must’ve not been too comfortable,
but you never complained. I told you
my secrets—you held my hand as I fell
asleep. I never talked to anyone else
like I talked to you. you always listened.
you were like a death trap; no one could get
information from you.

One day when I was 9, we spent the whole day out in the backyard. I rolled on top of you accidentally, pushing you into tormented grass and sour cream Pringles and orange Kool-Aid and dog shit. I thought I lost you. But I found you outside in the rain three days later. You hadn’t moved an inch. Were you scared like I was?

I brought you to the hospital
when I had my appendix out.
they even let me take you into
the operating room, where they cut
me open like my brother did to a frog
in biology. you got a pink band-aid.
I got a scar.

Sitting in Brad’s van, I thought about you the other day. Where did I leave you? I hope you’re still intact. Even now, the thought of losing you again makes me tear up. I loved you like you were a part of me. I hope Yoda didn’t get you. You might be covered in slobber in some sewage drain somewhere, if he did.

I thought you were it for me.
I thought we were a perfect match.
I thought no one could love me better.
But we all grow up.

Time Spent Alone

TIME SPENT ALONE
Recently, I was asked about my favourite childhood toy. My first impulse was to say, it wasn’t so much a toy but the anticipation of when mom brought home the latest Eaton’s catalogue from the Main Street Post Office.
I would lie on the floor and flip frantically through the glossy pages. With a shaky grip, I’d cut out the paper thin models donned with flowing virgin white bridal gowns and swanky brightly coloured bridesmaid dresses. Concentration would build as I swirled my moist tongue along dry lips.
With delicate fingers, I paraded the glamorous women atop the dresser, under the bed skirt and alongside the oil heater; usually to the tune of Dum, Dum, De, Dum. This usually lasted a few hours, or until the heads bent backwards and then the bridal party didn’t look as pretty.
But by saying that I was around for the Eaton’s catalogue, showed something about my age, so I picked the next memory that popped into my head. It was a doll, that my grown daughters recently pointed out - the head does not remotely match the body. I’m not sure how I missed that, since I had forty-plus years to give her a once over.
I’m also certain that I must have given her a name, but I can’t imagine what it would have been. Maybe Betty? Or was that the nurse doll?
Anyway, Miss ‘Odd Head’ certainly didn’t have the charm of an Eaton’s bride. Her puffed dimpled knees were moulded into a slightly bent position, she had a proportionally bloated tummy, fat arms and cupped fingers. In an upright position, her eyes opened with a sweep of dark lashes - her eyes closed, when she laid down. The doll had moulded plastic light-brown swirls for curls. And there was the slight split in her neck - possibly, a telltale sign of a foreign head being jack-hammered onto a larger frame. For a sense of realism, she had an anatomically correct hole bored into her bum.
I’m not sure of all of the details, but I do remember the day she died.
I cried openly, as tears rolled down my cheeks. Involuntary heartfelt hiccups escaped from my mouth. I believe the backyard theatrical performance came a few days after my Baba’s funeral.
I made a wobbly cross out of two sticks and a nail; which seemed to take the better part of the afternoon. It was a solemn day as I placed my doll’s lifeless body into the cool earth between red geraniums and pink petunias.
The next spring, my mom replanted her flower garden. I’m sure she had a creepy feeling inside her stomach as she pulled, first an arm, and then a head out of the makeshift burial plot.
Mom presented the doll to me later that night with nary the dirt of the last few months. I wrapped the white coloured plastic body and the brown rubber headed doll into a tea towel.
Jagged bits of plastic protruded where her fingers and toes used to be. The crack along her neck was somewhat larger. Her signature eyelashes were gone. The middle of her face was indented, faint evidence of a past nose. She only had one good eye. The other was somewhat wonky; like she might have experienced a stroke over the winter months. None-the-less, she was a miracle!
I still have her. In our basement. In a far corner. One cockeyed lash-less eye looking over the edge of a cardboard box. She is butt-naked, and the grandchildren never play with her.
Whatever her name is…

Assignment #1 Remembering your favorite childhood toy.....