HIS PURPLE HEART

i chanced upon the attic and saw my old wooden toy box, now draped in patterned cobwebs and grey aging dusts. The place reeks of that once familiar smell, the becoming remnants of a secret paradise and the subject of mom’s frequent scolding. i made an approach towards him and shrieks orchestrated themselves from the attic’s depreciated flooring, equally compensating the uncomfortable silence marooning in my mind. A few more steps and alas there he was – still full of his glory, a king untouched from his thrown and I, a child, beholden in the corners of his childhood past. His skin has aged; his knobs rusted by years of being barren, of being unnoticed, unharmed. But still there he stood, still dignified and strong – the friend of my playground, the guardian of my treasures.

he humbly unlocked himself and unfolded from within were my prized resources. These childhood toys arranged in disorganized, playful manner were much like my office clutter – only, they were more enjoyable than repeats of statement drafts and plain, uninviting letters. There were the mythical cars, transforming into figures upon my command. And the kids from Angel Grove High, saving the world when it’s morphin’ time. There were those freebies from the afternoon meals – products of the demanding only child. And the stacks of cards for gamble and for play, the relentless pursuit to outwit the last lost game.

and there was my first soldier toy, still tucked in his grey camouflage suit – an arm and foot removed from those selfish games I placed him into. He remained in duty, his purple heart corroded from years of distant wandering. His face is hesitantly tired from battles waged in time; his dirt eyes stricken with guilt of lost and surrender. 

so I picked up the glue and some plastic tape for fix. then, repaired his broken pieces, and reflexed his motionless bolts. His arm and foot have been loosely reconnected; the glue almost dried together with tapes sloppily plastered around his waist. I propped up his stature, and stared at him like a general respected by his field. Sweat transpired from my brows to the dusty strips of the attic.

at last.

after years of being broken, sir soldier toy is ready in service again – but not as tough and good-looking as it used to.

“but at least its fixed, Nino…
I said to myself,

…it’s fixed.”