Gemotions

A sharp pain, like a splinter, lodged itself in David’s chest as he spotted Clementine. The once-bright pink fur of the bear was now faded, matted, and one ear hung loose. He remembered the arguments, the tears, the slamming doors that had ultimately led to her being packed away. Shame, a hot blush, crept up his neck.

“Just a dollar,” the young man running the table mumbled, more interested in his phone. David’s eyes traced the worn seams, the patches where the stuffing peeked through. He pictured his sister, her small hands clutching Clementine during thunderstorms.

He paid the dollar without a word, feeling a lump rise in his throat. He understood, suddenly, the weight of things that outlive us, the echoes of love and loss that linger. He wouldn’t let her be forgotten.