To A Friend

I can’t remember the day that he arrived; not that it now matters,

He has just always been there, a pillow of memories.

In his warm dark eyes he saw the happy times of Christmas when despite his rejection as the mountain bike and computer games stole my attention he remained loyal.

Yet in those living plastic eyes he saw my sad reflection; of tears when grandparents parted,when I argued with my parents,  realising not everyone wanted to be my best friend.

That soft head of his holds the secrets of my childhood; like a Samaritan, a best friend he listened to my loves, my dreams yet also my hates.  When he was around all fears of war and murderers flitted away like the moth released from my window into the deep wide world.

His squashy fur was the life vest to shield me from the dangers of darkness and thunder during the long winters when wind howled against the pane and dreams of submerged monsters lashed against my little pine clad bed.

Now he just looks down upon me, the boy who rejected him;

He sits alone; a jacket of dust upon the barren shelf.  His fur, once the pride of the bedroom is mottled and shabby like a mariner’s dog.  The plastic balls hang precariously from their scrawny sockets.  The hard times still remain but he just sits watching, listening to the troubles of the boy he loved, he makes no judgement, no criticisms, he just sits a relic of my childhood, hoping to be loved again.


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