First posted 10/3/11
While cleaning out the garage yesterday, I
discovered him in a box on a dusty shelf, his leg caught in our old George
Foreman grill. His unblinking eyes fixed on me when I reached for him, as if to
say, “Where’s everybody been?”
Richard Paul, showing signs of the fierce
love our son CJ lavished on him long ago, was once an integral member of our
family. Richard Paul is a Cabbage Patch Doll.
I was thinking
about him a few weeks back when a distant relative of his showed up on one of
those pawn shop programs on TV. It turns out that Richard Paul is actually
worth a few bucks. He’d be worth more if he still had his birth certificate and
adoption papers, which I’m sorry to say he doesn’t. And I’m sure the signs of
wear and tear on his face and body, indications of just how much our son adored
him, would detract from his value. Not that it matters. In spite of what people
pawn on TV programs, I couldn’t possibly sell a family member, even one with an
eye peeling loose. And even if I could persuade myself to do so, even if I
could locate his adoption papers, he rightfully belongs to CJ. Just ask
Santa!
Strange how Richard
Paul's blue eyes bore into you. How do I explain that it isn’t the 80s anymore,
or even the 90s. I'm sure Richard Paul recognizes me as he would Mrs.
Chatterbox, although our hair is a bit grayer and I’m chubbier than before. Our
dog Ginger, who used to carry him from room to room when CJ wasn’t looking,
went to the Rainbow Bridge years ago, but it would be hardest to explain where
CJ went. Our son was three when Richard Paul came to live with us the
Christmas of ’83. CJ is now thirty-two years old.
As I brush dust
off the tangled yarn hair, I remember Richard Paul sitting at our dining room
table, smiling as our little boy tried to push food into his unmoving mouth. We
once lugged Richard Paul to Hawaii because our son refused to be separated from
him. But Richard Paul’s proudest moment came when he offered to spend the night
in CJ’s closet. Our son was sure a boy-eating lion was waiting in there to
gobble him up the moment we turned off the light and closed the door. I confess
that I was the one who volunteered Richard Paul for this assignment, but in the
morning when CJ flung open his closet door and saw his unblinking adopted
brother sitting there, uneaten and not mauled, it was Richard Paul who got the
credit.
I gently
returned him to his box, careful to keep his legs away from the jaws of the
George Foreman grill. I replaced the box on the shelf. The pang of sadness I
felt was lessened by the gladness of knowing Richard Paul was no longer lost.
Just waiting….
Did you ever
lose someone special? I still mourn the loss of my Woody Woodpecker doll.
Note: Be sure to enjoy all of my new posts here at chubbychatterbox.com.
