More Than A Soft Toy
When I was younger, I had this toy
a small raggedy dog with floppy ears and a painted-on smile.
The kind that always looked happy, even when it wasn’t.
I carried it everywhere, but not the way you’re supposed to.
I dragged it by the leg, tossed it in puddles,
forgot it in the sandbox when snack time came.
I called it my favorite, but I didn’t treat it like that.
I wasn’t angry. I just didn’t know how to be gentle.
And toys don’t cry. They don’t flinch. They just take it.
So I didn’t think it mattered.
But then, years later, I found it again.
Buried in a box, will toys long forgotten,
dirt still clinging to its wool.
And something in me sank.
I picked it up like it was made of glass and not stuffing,
held it like a secret I’d forgotten I told.
Its smile hadn’t changed. But I had.
Suddenly, I wanted to say sorry.
Not just for the toy, but for all the things
I didn’t know how to love gently.
For all the people I thought would stay
no matter how rough I was with them.
Sometimes I think that’s how we learn.
By hurting something before we realize
what it means to care.
And that little dog, that broken, quiet thing,
Taught me more about love than any book ever did.
That the hardest part is looking at something
you should’ve loved better, and realizing
it’s too late to try again.
I think we learn how to care
a little too late sometimes.
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