My new writing den is still not completed [sigh] but I’ve dragged in a chair so I can sit at the window and write this post.
If we hadn’t altered Daughter’s bedroom to accommodate my den then Tom Bear’s bath would never have happened. The memories would still have been caught up in his dusty fur.
|Charlie the cat is suspicious of the damp bear.|
I used a bowl of soapy water and a cloth. I didn’t want Tom Bear to be soaked through and through. I carefully wiped his head and ears and through the smell of musty wool came memories, a pink frilly dress that I bought for Daughter, the hair ribbons, the baby ballet classes.
I rubbed Tom’s arms... The pink frills were discarded, replaced with black. Just a phase.
I scrubbed his chin... When she practised her flute I’d stop my chores, sit and listen.
I rubbed at his tummy... When she got her degree we ran together up the steps of the University to see the words on the notice board, 1st class honours.
I worked the soapy cloth around his feet rubbing harder with each memory... her packed bags, a move to London, a first job, a new life. That was when Tom Bear climbed to the top of the wardrobe, all those years ago, and he only just came down and now I have to thank him for reminding me how proud I am of her and how precious our memories are.