Felt Memories

Beneath a bed her hand reaches and grasps a dust covered toy. His skin, not smooth and wet as the frog he resembles but soft and stitched. The girl sees and remembers: The white threads that holds him together look like birds flying across the French sky. His innards, light and wispy clouds, leaked out from Paris to Normandy, and wherever else he went with her. His stomach resembles the sun setting over Honfleur. The yellow dimmed as more water soaked his skin. And dust mites cling to him now as brine did to the innumerable boats of the pier when the two of them listened to crashing waves. His eyes are small, black, healed by felt and there’s a tuft of white on his head where he was torn from his chain years ago. Gripped tightly by an American girl, holding her soon-to-be memories.