Gemotions

The jumble of unwanted items seemed to fade away. My gaze locked onto the worn, familiar shape. It was Reginald. The years melted away, and I was eight again, clutching him tight as I drifted off to sleep. I pushed my way through the throng of bargain hunters, my pace quickening.

A man with a salt-and-pepper beard was examining a broken lawn chair. He barely glanced up as I approached, my hands clenching into fists.

"How much for the bear?" My voice was tight, almost desperate.

"Five dollars," he replied, pointing with a gnarled finger. "He’s seen better days, though." I didn't care.