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She named the puppy Gingerbread, the toy
I bought when she was three. I'd kind of thought
his name was Biscuit, but she'd always had
a sweet tooth. Feeling extra happy, she
would toss him in the air, legs flailing free.
When she felt sad, she'd hold him by the ear,
and stroke it gently, and would breathe its scent
slowly and deeply, and be soothed. Seven

years later, and she still has Gingerbread.
He's not soft anymore, but she recalls
the softness of his early days so well
she feels it still; he no longer smells fresh
at all, but she remembers when he did;
his scent is sweet to her. He does still fly
exuberantly high, whenever she
remembers that she loves to fling him up.

I have a certain place within my heart
for sweetness that grows old and lives in dreams:
the little sticky fingers, muddy toes,
the clean ones -- naked toddler run amok --
I-love-you's, minty bedtime kisses, prayers,
the aching loss of turning out the light --
and there's a place within that place, in time,
for stinky, threadbare, precious Gingerbread.