Elephant

Elephant, she named it,
Subtly has never been hers to claim.
It wears a small bandaid, mostly worn away
on its left front leg
from her Doc McStuffins phase,
And its tail
barely hangs on,
having been held
for years.

We’ve found it 
under pillows
wedged between cushions
hiding cleverly in a desk cabinet
(“Oh yes, she said upon finding it.
“We were playing!”),
dashing through the rain to
retrieve it from a crumb-scattered
car seat to tuck it
where it belonged
in the nook beneath her chin
pressed to her chest
where it undoubtedly fell asleep
to the thump of her tiny heart.

Once she cried
for three days
until we finally tracked it down –
mischievously stowed away
in the back of a tricycle,
tears and worry washed away
with its grubby grey cloth
no longer fuzzy
softly pilled and cheerfully tattered.

Its origins a mystery,
we searched every ‘small plush’ listing
to find its elusive match, nonexistent.
The luxury of a spare. But
There is only one Elephant,
And besides, I insisted,
She would know.

Tonight I walked past her bed,
mess of hair sprawled across her pillow
long and lean body burrowed.
Elephant lay, uncomplaining, on the floor,
Intermittently requested,
something we’d joked would never happen,
nor the relief of forgotten demands.
But instead, my heart squeezed
as I placed it beside her on the bed.
Tiny and grey and worn.

It’s been years now that
Elephant is no longer needed
except for the occasional thunderstorm or sadness.
No longer searched for
No longer clutched between chubby fingers
No longer squished between limbs and pillows.

It just kind of …happened, and

that’s how it happens,

I suppose.