The following piece is one of those object writings I wrote about in the last entry. This was the first one I did. It started off being about a stuffed animal I've had in one form or another since I was about five and spun off into something slightly different. But that's the beauty of object writing. It's not supposed to make perfect sense; it's just supposed to be about writing from your heart and getting some nice turns of phrase. So here goes something real personal.
The brown fur has faded and warn. Who ever heard of a brown furry whale anyway? Stitches can be seen, Frankenstein-like. A gaping hole(s) where white stuffing leaks out. Black shark eyes once painted with crescents of white, but no longer.
You'd swear this childhood was dead by the sound of it. But it's not - just well worn.
I still run the rough, grooved fabric across the skin of under-my-nose, and I can smell. I can smell a sharp tang of age - 28 years or so of existence. I can smell my cats and cuddling on the couch. Can feel putting my feet into my mom's lap to "tickle" them while shared TV, ideas, conversation blared in the background.
A well-worn childhood. Is there dirt pressed into those cracks? There's a smile pressed onto my face, sealed with a ray of sunshine and swinging on a swing set with friends who have scattered to the winds these days. And they have new childhoods to rear. Am I still struggling to let go of mine?
Is that why I struggle to start a new childhood now? I stand on the brink of that, yes, but at great toil and pain and sacrifice. I have worked to have this fun. Is it because I can still smell my own childhood each night in my sleep? Because it lives with me until I drift off and is the first thing I smell when I awaken again in the morning?
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