The Lost Soldier

I have almost completed my twice yearly seasonal cleaning. I suppose this is a relic left over from childhood where my mother would clean and decorate the house for each changing season. My daughter has wanted to go to the local dollar store to procure some things for decorating for the fall season. I clean for a different reason. A few years back a long term relationship ended and I needed to take stock of my household. Everything was dirty and tainted and I spent weeks feverishly cleaning my house in order for me to try and make it a home. I clean to take stock of my life. I was cleaning my kitchen drawers, which involves taking absolutely everything out, washing it and organizing it. My kitchen junk drawer always seems like a daunting task until I haul everything out and organize it. Two things grabbed my attention this time. Firstly it was a baster that I had separated earlier and washed. I was struggling to put it back together and thought, “Why bother I could pick another up at the dollar store”. The thought repulsed me. This society where things and people are so used up and replaced so quickly sickens me to the core. It was worth the struggle to put this thing back together so that I may use it again, if only on principle. After a hard fought battle I managed to piece it together again. 

 The other thing I came across was one of my toy soldiers. It was one of the very few things I would not let my ex throw away. I had started collecting them when I was little and lovingly hung them on the Christmas tree. The had reminded me of my Grandfather, these little toy soldiers. Having known at a very young age that he had fought and been injured in world war 2. Each year I bought a new ornament and more often than not a little wooden soldier. I lovingly scooped him out of the drawer and washed his face off and his uniform. “Where did you come from little soldier” I spoke in hushed tones to this inanimate little being. How had he made his way from my carefully organized Christmas ornaments to my junk drawer. Surely he had not hobbled on his stick legs he lacked feet. How was my little soldier supposed to march with no feet? What would his unit say? Would they carry him along with respect and responsibility for their own? I racked my brain to figure out how I would repair him. He was of value to me, loved since childhood. I decided to leave him as is. I will place him at the top of the tree to remind myself that even wounded soldiers have their value. He will be at the top of his troop of friends in a place of honour as a reminder that everything has value, especially people. I have named him Sherman after my grandfather who was left hobbling on canes after taking shrapnel. I hope my grandfather will look down from heaven like this poor wounded soldier at the top of my tree and smile and be proud of me. If only for this little token of remembrance that I have.