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ELEPHANTS, STUFFED
At some point in my pre
school-age years, I fell madly in love with elephants. I have no actual memory
of this, but there is a rather snazzy picture of my mom and me sitting cozily
on top of a fence, with a herd (gaggle? pack?) of elephants behind us. I look
mystified and elated. Or perhaps the sun is right above us and I look like a
two-year-old that should have a damn hat on her head. It’s hard too tell.
Regardless, the story goes
that my first tri to the zoo ended in a lifelong elephant love affair. (No, not
like that, you perv.)
By age 5, I had quite the
collection. Plush, patchwork, denim, and silk – if an elephant could be
fashioned from it and stuffed with bunting, I probably owned it. I loved my
elephants. They spread across my childhood bed like a tiny pachyderm parade.
They moved with us from one military base to another, each time lovingly boxed
up for the journey. Each time, Mom would let me choose one to bring along in
the car. I rotated through as many as possible, trying to be fair. (Don’t
judge.)
Two days after I graduated
from high school, I moved from Soesterberg, Holland to Ft. Walton Beach, Florida.
Just as before, I packed up all my belongings into a series of boxes. The elephants
all went into one big box, and this time – being all grown up and stuff, I didn’t
keep one out for the ride. I took my time packing them, thinking about the
different Christmas mornings, birthday parties, or special surprises when I
received each one. It was different this time, packing away my childhood.
I sealed their box with extra
tape and wrote “ELEPHANTS” in large block letters across the side of their new
cardboard home.
A day later, I was on my flight
to Florida.
I never saw the elephants
again.
(elephants were my E too!)
ReplyDelete~AJ @ frodofrog.blogspot.com
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