He molded me out of clay. Small fingers pressed down to make eyes. A lump of pink approximated a nose (not that it was any good for smelling, of course – it was purely decorative, just like the rest of me). He called me Geronimo and pressed me down onto the top of His television. The elongated balls of blue which served as my feet and presented an extremely vague resemblance to stitched moccasins were mushed flat at the bottom so that I could stand. From this perch I stood and watched Him as He slept beneath the glow of his nightlight. I held my toothpick spear at the ready in case any intruder should slink in the window or barge through His locked bedroom door.
I didn’t do much, but it was enough. I served my purpose, I protected Him while He dreamed, and this made me feel content in my way. At least it did most of the time.
In fact, I quite liked my existence at night. I watched Him sleep, noted how His eyes darted when He dreamed, and sometimes I could peer inside His mind and follow His nocturnal adventures. We drifted down the Mississippi together in a splendid canoe. He came up with so many adventures, so many stories, so many characters, and He did it all without any apparent conscious effort. He left me in awe.
Nighttime was my time. Dreamtime was my time.
Daytime, on the other hand, was something to dread. It was so lonely. The toys sat sprawled about, unmoving. They were lifeless without Him, and so was I. Sometimes The Mother would come in and make up the bed or vacuum the rug, but she never played with us. Sometimes she organized the toys. Sometimes she threw some of the broken toys out. Sometimes I feared her. I was just a useless lump of clay. I could be garbage.
But she left me alone. Sometimes she even smiled at me. I knew how ugly I was, I could see my reflection, but I guess she saw some part of my creator in me and that made me beautiful through her eyes. I was an extension of Him, and this comforted me during the long days.
I would watch the sunlight slant across the room and move slowly, ever so slowly, while He was gone to school. The days crept by while the nights flew past in a blurry haze, and time went on this way until one day He didn’t return.
I waited and watched His bed. I watched the toys. I watched the windows. I saw red and blue flashing lights at one point. I watched the door. There were muffled questions being asked of The Mother by strange authoritative male voices just outside the room.
Time went on and no one entered the room. We were alone. We were without Him. We grew dusty. The nights were long without His dreaming. I mourned the loss of my purpose. I mourned my failure – my spear remained in place, unused. Without the sun slanting into the room, I did not even have a way to mark time. The nights seemingly stretched on into infinities before the morning sun finally appeared to light the windows.
Days passed. Nights passed. The room remained still and lifeless.
One day The Mother entered the room with garbage bags. She wept as she shoved everything into the bags. All the toys, all the clothes – they were all removed. I grew scared, not knowing what my future might bring. The toothpick spear trembled in my hand.
The room grew empty except for the furniture and except for me. I remained as time crawled onwards, and every day brought more sorrow and more trepidation. The future was unknown. The past was gone and I couldn’t change anything. My toothpick spear, my all-important weapon, had been useless to stop whatever had happened. I had been helpless to protect my maker. A fit of terror seized me when I realized my purpose would remain forever unfulfilled. My spear would forever be unused.
Then one day, The Mother noticed me. She stopped. She smiled. A tear fell on her face and she lifted me up. She caressed me with tender fingers. I thought about how His fingerprints were embedded all over me, and I felt something like hope.
She carried me to her bedroom and placed me on her nightstand. She placed a glass jar over me, and there I stood.
From time to time she looks at me. Sometimes she cries, sometimes she smiles, but I always feel wanted, perhaps even needed. I have a purpose. Yet the toothpick in my hand remains unused; a painful reminder of all that I could not stop. I forever mourn the loss of His dreaming.