It reminds me of him,
Winnie the Pooh with a big belly
in front of a full length mirror.
It’s a collecting-dust-on-the-shelf kind of figurine.
We’re moving homes. Just before my hand drops it into the
big white trash bag labelled donations
I run my fingers over
the three jars of honey at its feet,
three the number for mom, sister, and me.
Now I notice a fourth, behind the mirror.
It doesn’t mean much, but
it made me think about the things that are there
for so long that I don’t even see.
I run my fingers over
Pooh’s belly. It reminds me of his,
and the time he put his elbows to the side, hands to his ears
to make pedals so I could drive him like a car.
He zoooms until I fall on the bed
with a giggle attack. Later I draw
a small rat on the belly of a bigger rat
for his birthday, because we were both born
in The Year of the Rat and not because
I don’t remember the other things
we have in common. So I replicate memories.
Out of all the things I could have given away
I kept dad.
Grace C. Sun is a seventeen year old writer from Hong Kong. Her work can also be found in evanescent magazine.