Pucka Parker Rest In Peace

It all started five decades ago, when her gift of imagination began to grow. She was the youngest of five and could not wait for her to arrive. Velvety soft skin so fair, along with lots of curly blonde hair; Eyes deep blue like the night welkin, with an innocent smile and double chin; Tiny hands that grip and probe wrapped in a pink blanket robe. Cyndi, a sweet southern name but a lonely child she soon became. Cyndi went outside to play in the sand, soon came back holding an imagined hand. At two years old she made a brand new friend, to her Pucka Parker was not pretend. With siblings overpowering her in age, she often took over center stage. She was the apple of mom and dad’s eye and learned quickly how to slide by. Their likeness was uncanny; the mischief was not on her fanny. Pucka Parker did it, she would cry, as elephant tears poured from her eye. Pucka Parker was forever to blame and soon inherited the family name. We took her shopping even to church leaving enough space for her to perch. We took her in the car on vacation and somehow left her at the gas station. Cyndi was so upset that she was gone that we had to stop at, what is now, an Exxon. Pucka Parker was everywhere, to us older ones it seemed so unfair. Pucka Parker was ruining our life forever; Cyndi’s ties to her must sever. Mom asked the doctor, what to do, give her some time for her age to accrue. Now at four, Pucka was on a roll, she ate every cookie from the storing bowl. She stashed dad’s keys in her drawer; so he couldn’t take mom to the store. She found lost animals of every sort, said they were lonely, needed her support. One hot day, at the age of five, she came crying, Pucka was no longer alive. Tragic end, Pucka was hit by a car, went to heaven; was a new star. We laid Pucka carefully in a box, on a nice bed of our holey old socks. We had a short funeral on her behalf, wrote words on a paper and pinned it to a staff. Here lies beloved Pucka Parker, she was the best, it said on her marker. It didn’t take long for Cyndi to recoup, befriended a girl to sit on the porch stoop. It is funny how children conform; make their life cozy, secure, and warm. To this day after forty-eight years, we recall Pucka who transformed Cyndi’s tears. Copyright © 2010 By Caryl S. Muzzey Fourth Place Winner ~ "Story Time” Poetry Contest Sponsored by: Carol Brown Oct. 12, 2010