Our first son was born, forty-eight years ago,
a deluge of plastic and cloth
poured into our home, piled up,
broke, lost and found again,
abused over the years by our privileged kids,
unlike the urchin in Baudelaire's
prose piece who enticed his
rich friend with a rat toy in a wire cage.
This week, I drove to get a prescription
for my aging body. I hastily
dropped boxes of assorted toys
at the charity Center of a local church,
convinced our seven-year-old grandson
that he needed to sort through the last batch,
keep a few precious ones and share
most of them with poor kids.
The volunteer happily lugged
the packed boxes inside
filled with toys and books,
not left outside in the bins where
rain would wash away memories.
I thanked him, started my car,
pulled around the corner,
but grief stopped me in the alley,
an unexpected sob escaped,
nostalgia for those toys and boys.
Images of dragons and trucks,
Ernie, Bert, Big Bird, and Oscar,
transformers, Star Wars figures,
scads of little people, swords and knights,
loads of action figures flew through my mind,
charity and good will no panacea.
I drove on for my meds,
tiny pills that keep me alive,
but they are not toys,
only reminders.
Originally published in One Art Magazine