| If Calvin can have Hobbes, why shouldn’t Mother and I create an imaginary world, assigning names and personalities to the assortment of stuffed animals perched on her bed eavesdropping on our daily chair chat conversations? They were our buddies, our kids, our family, our audience to the fun-filled, off-key, daily rendition of “Oh, What a Beautiful Morning.” One New Year’s Day, we decided to draw names from Dad’s mug to decide who might accompany us down the hall to watch the Rose Bowl, a game in which he once played. And then it became ritual for playoffs, holidays —everyone with an equal chance— save banana breakfasts. On those mornings, the “boys” (a monkey, a chimp, a gorilla) were assured a place at the table so that I might read to them “Banana School” by Billy Collins. Reading poems is what poets do, unless it was a “Tut-tut, it looks like rain” kind of day. Then it was The World of Pooh and Teddy, the stuffed bear from Dad, would have the prized perch on Mother’s lap. Unless Piglet appeared, then it was Little Puppy’s turn, with her black and white spots. If Owl, then Big Bird. If Rabbit, then a chewed remnant of Lady’s favorite toy. One Sunday, three months before her ninety-ninth birthday, Mother left home and did not return. Her bed, their home, disappeared. As the buddies balanced precariously on a bedside table, I tried to explain the unexplainable. Her death. Almost as hard, to let them know many would be moving to new homes to live with Mother’s other children. “But you will always be in my heart,” I assured them. “Forever buddies. Forever family.” I read Calvin and Hobbes to those left, the books a gift from Dad as if he knew I might forget the value in remaining playful. |
Mary McKSchmidt
Daughter of Jane and Harry McKinney
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