Plush Dogs Heal Hearts: A Poem for Poopsie
My love for you is like the sun radiant, the moon quiet, the sea vast, a pillow soft. Your ears that don’t just hear, they listen. You are the flower fragrant, a worn pair of jeans. Squishy wishy face, wish upon a star, time passes oh so swiftly. Plush dogs heal hearts, soaking tears of disappointment Plush dogs heal hearts, spinning in circles as we danced with delight in joyous times. Plush dogs heal hearts, never to reveal my secrets. Poopsie, an old companion that colours the memories captured in my mind of an innocent time. Fin
Poopsie (noun) — Sweetheart; babe, honey • Often a term of endearment
She is the vessel the holder and keeper of secrets. A zen master and my guru who without complaint, without want nor desire for anything is the embodiment of pure love. Rusty brown and tan her soft fur worn, a memory of the once sparkling plastic eyes lit her face. Her heart once cotton fluff that had indeed been transmuted into gold. She was the precursor to the flesh and blood dogs that would come into my life.
Her presence alone whispered comfort. I cannot remember ever being without her, even now, she sits in a basket in the closet filled with my intimate garments, suppose it’s apropos since she is the keeper of my deepest darkest secrets, hopes, dreams, disappointments and successes. There was never even a need for words even when they were spoken, as it was by osmosis that she absorbed everything.
She was just there. Her name is Poopsie and she has accompanied me always.
Whilst she remained my confidant, less and less time would be spent together. She no longer accompanied me when I went shopping, as she had done in my childhood years when shopping with my mother. Together, we would sit quietly in the dressing room and wait as I told her stories and twisted her ears into endless buns atop her head.
Although she remained on my bed each day until we left my parents’ home. After a while, she would no longer be in the centre. It was inevitable that along with other plush toys, she would be relegated to hidden spaces.
After a while, when I went out she stayed home.
As the keeper of my story, she was disarming to the men in my life. They were the persons that were privileged to meet her.
There was the first love that was a young love, a coming-of-age love. Then there was the love of my life, a deep true love that I had hoped would be everlasting. Then there was another karmic love that wasn’t capable of loving.
She bore witness to them all and all of them, each man who had the privilege to meet her, all of them punched her in the face. Maybe she didn’t mind, since her once sparkling plastic eyes that lit her face were lost through the years. Besides she never saw it coming.
Amy is a visual artist, editor, writer, periodic code warrior, supreme lover of dogs, epic gardener, and self-appointed yoga goddess. You can find her on various social media outlets.