I no longer remember my name, although I’m sure I used to have one or possibly more. It’s hard for me to say this, but truth is no one has called me anything for a long time. I don’t know why is it that people disappear. One day you’re best buddies and hang around all the time and next thing you know, poof, gone… Sometimes they come back, sometimes they don’t. But even if they do come back, they’re never the same. They may pretend to, and cry with joy when they see me, but it’s not the same. I can see the change in their eyes. I don’t suppose you know about the change and I don’t have all the words to explain it to you. Even when all the people in the house treat them as if they were the same, I know they’re not.
Maybe it’s normal, I guess it is, but when the change is complete they cease to see. You can tell by the way they walk into the room, all important, all in a rush and they won’t even stop to say ‘Hi’. I don’t mind. I think I’m old enough to understand how things go in this life so I’m not sad. I know it’s not their fault, this is how things are. Alright, I am a bit sad, because I remember the times when we were best friends and it hurts a bit when they won’t even look at me.
The house used to be full of people and it so much fun, but now there’s just me and the old lady, and she only cares about her flowers. I mean, yeah, sure, flowers are nice to look at, but they have such short lives and anyway you cannot be friends with a flower. You cannot take a trip together or huddle under the blankets on a cold night.
I used to do that a lot with the other woman, the one who used to live in this room. Before her change, that is, when she was just a girl with curly black hair and glasses she used to hide in her pocket when we went out for a walk. When she got older, she ditched the glasses and… we no longer went out for a walk and I waited for her every day, but she never held me in her arms again. I haven’t seen her for a long long time, which is strange. She always came back to me and I’d watched her hunkered down over her desk all night long. It was so weird, I could no longer tell whether it was day or night. There was always light in the room and she did her work and never spoke to me. I understood she was no longer the little girl who used to be my best friend. I was just glad she was there. But one day she left and rarely came back. I was always surprised to see her walk in, but she did not come to me. Maybe she was tired, she looked very tired to me. And then she didn’t come back. I wonder where she is and what’s keeping her.
There were others who never came back. The old man who used to sit on the sofa and fiddle with the radio dials, the loud music making me jump. Or when he sat in the armchair with the phone in his lap. I remember he was sad as nobody answered him. And he couldn’t understand how could it be that the friends he spoke only a few months ago where no longer there to answer his calls.
People are strange like that. I never forget and I’m always here should anyone want to talk to me.
There’s the other girl who used to be my friend and she washed me and combed my hair and made sure I was always comfortable, but the change found her, too and I don’t see her much anymore. She doesn’t see me at all, her eyes are different now, the spark that lit her face is gone and now she’s all worry and she’s always in a hurry. Other places she needs to be. But at least I know she’s OK and that’s all that matters. That’s the meaning of friendship, if you ask me, letting go of people, but keeping them in your heart.
The room is awfully quiet these days, only at night the books start whispering among themselves, forever locked in their endless quarrel - who’s more important, who’s most loved. They don’t talk to me, you know, because my name is forgotten but theirs is written on their spine and they think they are special, but they’re not. They’re as full of dust as I am and no one has opened them in so long their ink is fading. I’ve never said that out loud, I am not mean and, to be honest, it’s nice living with so many books around. So many words, so many ideas, and I like being smart for the new friends I’m going to make. Some day.
One of the books that sits on the top shelf by the window says people are not forgotten until the ripples they created are gone from this world. Which I think it’s a bit stupid. I don’t forget anything, not the days in the park, not the walks in that silly toy pram, not the hugs and kisses, not the afternoons spent watching them sleep. How can they say the ripples might be gone one day when everything is here in my head? As long as I’m around, nothing is forgotten.
The books think they’re special, they have knowledge in their pages, they say, and I get that. I don’t pretend to be smart like them. What I don’t get is them saying one day some one will come to throw me away, because I’m just a useless stuffed monkey nobody cares about. I laugh at them when they talk like that, but in the early hours when the house is still I wonder. What if? What if one day will come when there won’t be anybody left to know me? So many are already gone, I know it could happen. The old lady knows me and the other one that comes from time to time. She doesn’t call my name anymore, but I know it’s still somewhere inside her. She remembers the fun we used to have, there’s still a tiny ripple left in her heart.
I don’t want to think about this anymore. Whatever… if one day none of them comes back, I’ll be still here waiting.
Thanks for reading
The image is mine. So is the monkey, I guess.
That photo! That opening: I no longer remember my name, although I’m sure I used to have one -- You kill me.
Someone buy these people a copy of The Velveteen Rabbit!!!
I like to believe that all animal-- cats, dogs, horses, birds, and more -- who were loved enough (or just awesome enough) will have a place in heaven. If there is a heaven, if there is an afterlife, our furry and feathered friends will be there too, and maybe the top one percent of bugs or spiders who were worthy. :)