there are memories in me, this one clings to me, coats my insides. it is not raw, not anymore.
she is standing balanced on a wooden stool, out of the window the leaves brush past and twirl. her teddy, a tiger, sits solemnly in front on her, its bean filled legs dangling over the worktop.
the little girl's hands are small and warm. they busy as she fusses over the tiger. it has never been washed but now she is scrubbing its fur tummy with a comb and soapy water. the suds lap over bowl beside them.
"are you sure alex wouldn't prefer the washing machine? he'd really be sparkling clean..."
a horrified look crosses the little girl's face at her mother's words. she shakes her head, horrified turning to a stern, stubborn no.
she doesn't want the tiger washed of all his history, his fuzzy smell, his black glass eyes. she hugs the tiger close, his soapy wet tummy soaking her tee shirt.
she is safe. she was safe. she was me.
- ► 2011 (36)