The Little Fuchsia Bear

Today's muse: Pictures, Poetry & Prose


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The Little Fuchsia Bear

He remembered the first day as though time had not passed. The grown-ups held him by his waist, swung him to and fro, while the child gazed at him in wonder, giggled with delight. Her small, pudgy hands squeezed and held him tight, while strong gums gnawed and sucked his left ear until it was mangled beyond recognition.

In the early years, he attended lavish tea parties and marched in extravagant parades; always wearing the gaudy orange hat and the pink feather boa. Evenings, he was held close in peaceful slumber; though he often woke on the floor, furred limbs splayed, as if he'd spent the evening on a wild bender.

In time, his seniority made him privy to classified information; debriefed at length on what was said at recess, to whom and how, with detailed dossiers on those who didn't play well with others.

Much later, he spent hours listening to the tortured lament of teenage love, offered the kind of comfort only a hug can provide. Most recently, his time was filled with endless days of solitude, lying prone on the flowered bedspread.

Now, propped against the bed pillows, listing somewhat to the left, he watched her pack the few possessions she would take with her to university. He felt deflated and empty, as though the very stuffing that gave him life was wrenched from his fuchsia body and he was nothing but a dishevelled casing. He contemplated his dismal future; boxed and sent to a charity where he would lay with other abandoned stuffies, bewailing better times. They would all recall how their owners loved them, boast of their play dates, each tale more embellished than the last.

And in the dark hours, when the lights were asleep and he was not, he would miss how she’d wrap her arm around him and hug him close while she dreamt.

She placed the last box beside him on the bed, thrust her hands into the pockets of her worn jeans and scanned her bedroom. A wistful expression flickered across her face and it tore at his stuffed heart. With a heavy sigh, she picked up the box, tucked it under her arm and scooped up the worn bear in a one-armed hug.

"You have to come with me," she mumbled into his fur. "It just won’t be the same without you."

With that the little fuchsia bear left the room, swinging upside down, one leg held in a firm grip, arms thrown wide in delight.