I’m asking you to come back home,
Big Red Dinosaur.
When I put you on the sidewalk,
it was based on the best, sensible medical advice.
You were too germy,
and our girl could not protect herself
from ordinary germs
due to the treatment.
So, I put you out,
but I didn’t take your feelings into account,
and I was not ready,
did not expect you to run away.
Of course, we did everything we could.
But in the end, despite the odds of cure,
there was no cure.
I long to surround myself
with all of her creatures –
her cowies and doggies,
the beanbags and puppets –
all of which ran away.
It is sweet to remember her in awe
seeing you in the store window
and my flash of insight:
although she loved her doody-filled diapers,
for the sake of earning the enormous crimson brontosaurus
bigger than she was,
she would make the move to the potty.
And when she did,
we brought you home,
and she slept on you for the first three nights
before returning to her bed.
These days I’m not sleeping well.
Can you please come back home?