What is The One Thing You Cannot Declutter?

I sort. I discard. I wrinkle my nose at random items.

Spark joy? Doubtful. Discard.

Repeat. Repeat. Repeat.

Then like a fountain in winter

when it freezes mid flow,

I learn something.

There is one thing I cannot declutter.

I hold the flippy threadbare sand-filled bear

in the palm of my hand, stroking its belly with my thumb.

I swear it looks back at me,

pulling at my heartstrings,

it opens a mental box of memories.

The once satin label

merely a few strands of thread now

having been rubbed, loved and sniffed into oblivion,

only a delicate spiderweb remained, forming the essence of that bear.

‘Remember?’ The bear seemed to ask,

‘How he rubbed the satin with tiny fingers, exploring,

finding calm,

tickling his nose and sniffing

* * *

Remember the first visit to Tumble Tots?’

‘Yes,’ I replied, gently acknowledging the bear’s quiet plea.

I remember walking my little boy home,

pointing at an autumn leaf falling from a tree,

a fire engine, blackberries ripening by the roadside.

All golden nuggets of chat and observations that would become

a ritual for many years to come:

on walks from playgroups, play-dates,

birthday parties, primary school…

It was only on reaching home that panic appeared on his little face.

Where was bear?

* * *

There is little in life that breaks my heart more

than the distress of my little toddler, when he has lost his bear,

his tiny features crinkled,

catching tears as they run unchecked

down rounded, pliant cheeks

when realisation hits you:

We must have left his bear at playgroup!

Retraced our steps but found no bear.

The hall now closed, empty,

a fretful wait until the next day.

There followed a very long night.

Was bear lost? stolen? incarcerated?

How would this tale of loss end?

What if bear had been kidnapped?

* * *

Because I now cradle

little bear in my hand,

you can deduce with a sigh of relief,

that after many tears and much consolation,

the story ended well.

Bear was reconciled with his little human.

There was joy, glee, and clapping of small chubby hands

for two minutes.

Then, bear was deposited

without ceremony or recourse

on the floor

and promptly replaced with

a shiny red fire engine.

* * *

So have you guessed what I cannot declutter?

‘Is it bears?’ I hear you guess;

‘No’

‘Is it … old toys?’ you try again;

Still ‘No’

‘What then … what can you not declutter?’

‘Stories,’ I whisper to the bear … ‘Stories,’

as I gently place him back into my precious box of treasures.

* * *

If you would like to read my poem for Pride Month: