The Dusty Shelf

February 27, 2012
Sitting here, waiting. Waiting for her to come back. She was gone now, living her dream life.

We used to play all the time: tea parties, picnics in the yard, pretending to be people or things we weren’t. She would come in the room dressed in her mother’s jewels, sister’s shoes, and grandmother’s hats. She would call me different names; oh the fun we had when she was young.
At night I would be dragged around the house with her whining that she didn’t want to go to bed. I was there as she had her tantrums and there when she cried because she fell.
When she became older I was sat on the self between a vase of flowers from her new boyfriend, and her school books. I sat there through everything, her fights with her friends or boyfriends, her times of crying and writing songs of dying inside or of her broken heart. It saddened me to see her go through these times. I wanted to reach out to her, to be there for her again; yet I just sat there forgotten, like an old rag.
The year of her graduation came around. She was packing everything for college, everything but me. This room had been empty ever since. So I’ve been sitting here on this dusty shelf, waiting for her to come back for me. I don’t know how long it’s been, weeks, months, years?
A light came on inside the old room, the door opened. Could this be her? Could she be back for me? Is she even going to want me back? It doesn’t matter, as long as I get to see her face again.
She was standing there, looking around the empty room. She was all grown up now; in her arms was a sleeping infant, and a man was standing next to her.
“This used to be my room.” She whispered to the newborn. She took one more look around, her eyes landed on me. She smiled; her husband came over, picked me up, wiped the dust off, and gave it to her.
The room was then painted and filled with baby furniture. As the baby grew up I was played with again and enjoyed every second of it. I would always be her Teddy.

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