The lament of a once cherished toy

It’s dark in here. And dusty. And smelly. This place must once have been used to house chickens.

I can’t remem­ber when I was put in here, but it was a long time ago.

I also can’t recall why I was rel­e­gat­ed to this loath­some place.

I was active, use­ful. In the prime of life, with many, many years left to me.

Now I just sit here in the dark­ness, won­der­ing about these things and about when, if ever, I shall be released from this prison.

My days here seem end­less, stacked one upon the oth­er with­out respite.

Oh, peo­ple come occa­sion­al­ly. Not to see me or to free me, but just to col­lect some­thing or oth­er, some device, some tool, while ignor­ing me completely.

It is only on those occa­sions, the infre­quent vis­i­ta­tions, that some ray of sun­shine is allowed into this remorse­less­ly somber place, to offer a bit of warmth, a ray of hope.

I have been here through every sea­son, the stul­ti­fy­ing heat of sum­mer when rare breezes seep­ing through the cracks of ancient boards offer lit­tle relief, and the bit­ter cold of win­ter when its accom­pa­ny­ing winds blow frigid air through those same chinks.

I exist on rever­ie, think­ing of days past when I played amongst laugh­ing chil­dren, an inte­gral part of their rev­el­ry, in heat­ed sum­mer days when wel­come relief came from a sud­den rain, and we all rel­ished its fresh­ness, steam ris­ing from the pave­ment on which we played.

And now, as I sit here rem­i­nisc­ing of those hap­py days, some­one approach­es. I can hear their foot­falls on the grav­el that leads to the door that has been secured for … how long now?

The door opens, and the bright­ness of the day floods in. The sud­den change near­ly blinds me, but the per­son who enters is cast­ing aside all man­ner of detri­tus as they search for some­thing. For what?

For me!

He grasps me, none too gen­tly, I might add, and I am pulled uncer­e­mo­ni­ous­ly into the blaz­ing daylight.

Am I at last to be freed?

My hopes fly!

We move along the grav­el path, the stones’ sharp­ness goug­ing and flail­ing me as I am dragged along, and I see that we are head­ed to anoth­er near­by build­ing. Not a house. A garage. Shall I be impris­oned once again, only in dif­fer­ent environs?

And then I am left alone just out­side the build­ing, and the one who brought me to this place dis­ap­pears for a moment—an oppor­tu­ni­ty for escape!

But no, he returns only a short time lat­er, and he car­ries some­thing in his hand. What?

Oh, no. I see it now. I see what he intends.

After my long impris­on­ment, I am to lose what lit­tle is left of me, my iden­ti­ty, my name!

He comes. He kneels. His arm is shak­ing vio­lent­ly, and I see him aim­ing at me.

I feel the spray as it hits my body, and I know that my iden­ti­ty is being destroyed.

As the spray cov­ers me, I begin to turn red in response, not just rosy red, but a bright crim­son hue.

And slow­ly, as the red grows, my being fades, recedes.

My very being is dis­ap­pear­ing as the spray envelops me, and my name, Radio Flyer, suc­cumbs to the spray.