When do the objects of our youth
(the dolls, the soldiers and the pets
upon which our childhood was acted)
become actors themselves,
transitioning within our minds
from stage
to prop to member
of our troupe,
our company,
ourselves?
Is there a moment?
Is there a reason
we begrudge to these
a share of influence?
Or are we merely sloughing off upon
the doll with perfect hips
that lost an eye,
the stern, broad-shouldered army man
without an arm,
the pup which was not fed
but loved us still,
responsibility
for all the wisdom
and the sins of age,
our insecurities?
I cannot say.
I only know that as a survivor of those years, myself,
I feel a certain kinship with
the ancient dog
and long-forgotten toys,
who also lived that life but cannot tell the tale.