Cubby: More than A Soft Toy
In the quiet corners of my mind-
A fuzzy friend named Cubby still resides.
Years ago, when I was three,
He tumbled into my life, so warm and free.
His legs once jiggled, full of beads,
Now gently limp, shaped by years and needs.
Stitches faded, fur rubbed thin,
Yet love, not fabric, holds him in.
Psychology whispers: attachment, security,
But Cubby is more than theory-he's memory's purity.
He's comfort on restless nights,
A silent listener to childhood's frights.
One summer day, a suitcase closed-
Cubby missing, my heart exposed.
Tears spilled all the way back home,
I felt so lost, so all alone.
But surprise! My brother's gentle tease:
He'd tucked Cubby away, aimed to please.
The ache of loss became relief so sweet-
Reunion turning sorrow to heartbeat.
Why do we long for what can't speak?
Why do soft things make us weak?
Perhaps in Cubby, I see a part
Of something gentle in my heart.
He's more than cotton, thread, and fur-
He's childhood's echo, comforter.
Psychology says it's just a phase,
But Cubby's love, it never decays.
Copyright ©
Jami Patterson
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