how i forget to cherish these little moments of our togetherness; making an early meal of sauteed vegetables and eggs, "froached" like i used to call them when i was your little chef and would bring you breakfast on special occasions, and sometimes on sundays, just because it was sunday and dad didn't have to leave for work long before the crack of dawn even set its alarm.
we'd all sit in bed together, squished into sharing a cozy comfort, sandwiched between you two and my old buddy gladly the bear who still sits on your bed upstairs in his pink- and-green striped shirt.
but then i guess somewhere along the way i grew up; the move happened-- i didn't visit gladly anymore, or you for that matter.
today you asked me to get the big jar -- the carnation (top) jar, from the shelf of the kitchen cabinet while i explained my oddly convoluted thought process, and we talked about how my granddad danced you down the aisle to django on a whim of a kooky family friend, and how i finally realized how little i actually know of you-- but that's normal.
i might be growing up now, and i might not visit that little bear anymore, but what i never really told you, or anyone, is that i have my own now, a blue one who used to be called blueberry, renamed as joseph stalin, because i'm a big boy now, and my sense of humor dried out long ago.
i may not be your little chef anymore, but i can still make you breakfast, and bring it to your bed on sundays, and sit with gladly, and quietly chat until late morning like we used to (never) do.