I listen intently to her story about the plushie that she desperately wanted. It was a unicorn- fresh, new, soft, sparkly and purple. I hear her describe how she felt when she saw it. Her face shows the joy and delight she felt when she relives the moment her grandmother surprised her with it. She reveals that she also received a plushie that had been her mother’s. This plushie shows signs of wear and tear and years of love. It is an puppy, with brown faded paws and flat worn fur. Before it became hers, it was kept in a box of her mother’s things. But now the old and new plushies are precious to her. They comfort her when she’s feeling lonely. With a tinge of sadness creeping around the corners of her eyes and the edges of her words, she shares that her mother died a long time ago.
Although I had suspected this, I struggle to swallow the lump in my throat that has grown from the size of a plum to that of a grapefruit in mere seconds. My heart misses a beat and I give her a tender smile.
She is only seven years old.
“I’ll silently stand in the corner and cry, on this fateful day.
I refuse to say goodbye because I don’t want to see you go away.”
Peace and love-