Do objects have a memory? Does a rocking chair hold the essence of the snuggles it has witnessed? Does a pottery mug remember the comforting warmth it offered a struggling soul?
The dictionary defines personification as “the attribution of a personal nature or human characteristics to something nonhuman, or the representation of an abstract quality in human form.”
Now it’s your turn to tell a piece of your story from the point of view of an object who bore witness in 400 words or less. Please follow this link to see how others handled the prompt
I have been with my Beloved since the beginning, when Her Daddy bought me – a soft stuffed replica of dolphin Flipper complete with gentle squeak – just before she was born in 1964. She sucked on my outsize lips and my fins to ease the pain of teething, and my squeaks could almost always make Her smile, even during tantrums.
I shared Her seatbelt on a PanAm jumbo when the Family crossed the world to Australia in 1970. I visited the Buddhas of Bangkok and was nearly left in the lobby of the Oriental Hotel. And I absorbed the countless tears that flowed when She was bullied in those new schools. No wonder my once-plush skin is now patchy and worn! When we crossed the world again, She was eleven: I lost my window seat and made the trip in a suitcase.
I stayed on Her bed through the Washington years, but the move to Hawaii saw me relegated to a box where I remained for more than a decade. In that darkness, my eyes faded and my squeak disappeared forever.
So when She picked me up, large with child Herself, aged nearly thirty, I could only force my patched lips into a smile. I was. In Her arms. Again.
“Flipper!” She crowed, child-like again. “My favourite toy! We must take him for our son...”
Once again I crossed the world. Now I live in a land of scorching dust and olive trees, quite near the sea. I have raised four more Children, exalted in their teething, been washed by their tears, rejoiced in their growing, applauded – in my silent way – each milestone. Today I sit on Her Daughter's shelf (I'd prefer the bed, but the shelf beats a box and is certainly better than the bin to which I thought I was headed a year ago); my place in this Family secure. I heard Her say just the other day, when Her adored eyes settled on my now-sagging form: 'I'm so glad we didn't get rid of Flipper in the clean-out...'
The smell of cigarette smoke wafting through Her Daughter's open French windows saddens me, and I prefer the Classical music of my Beloved's childhood to Her Son's heavy metal – I'm glad, sometimes, that I don't hear as well as I used to.
I look forward to grandchildren... But please, Great Spirit of the Sea, not too soon?