Bruin

I loved Bruin.

He stood in the hallway in Grandma and Grandpa’s bungalow, ready to hold umbrellas or walking sticks.

I loved Bruin.

His mouth was always open, his teeth sharp, but just far enough apart to admit my small fingers – and for me to feel their pointed ends.

I loved Bruin.

I stroked his rough-smooth wooden fur, followed its lines with my fingers, cuddled his bulky still frame, talked to his endlessly staring eyes.

I loved Bruin.

Where are you, Bruin?

She loved you too. But not as much as me. If she had, she would never have left you to be moved to an auction room floor. Dirty unknown hands examining you, noting the straight line cut through your umbrella-encircling wood, marking it as a fault. What your eyes have seen, Bruin. They used to smile at me. What your fur has felt, as it steadily grew cold. What your ears have heard, as none remembered to dust them, letting time and transport leave their mark. Is that why your tongue was there? Eager, almost panting, like a dog? Trusting, faithful? Yet she broke that trust.

Where are you now, dear Bruin?

What sounds fill your once-loved ears? Is there laughter, where you are?

What sights greet your once-smiling eyes? Others saw a stare; I knew more.

Which hands caress your fur? Or are you firewood?

Yes. I loved Bruin.