I am sorry I threw away your broken tiara,
the blue Cinderella dress with the ripped sleeves,
and the wand with the faded pink star.
I am sorry I tossed out the magic eight ball
with the blue message in the bottom that always said,
“Not Sure,” and the various mismatched sections
of Hot Wheels race tracks. And the pen
with the bobblehead that always falls off.
And you won’t find Barbie’s black high heel
rubber shoes with the broken back strap.
Or the toy Pegasus with only one wing.
Or the shiny slinky with the torque in it’s spring.
I threw them away.
There was more.
I know you loved them, those broken bits
of childhood, those souvenirs of past happiness.
I did it while you were in the other room,
and took out the guilty bag before you could peek inside.
I knew you would want them back, the jacks
you have never played with, the crappy plastic Elsa kazoo
you got at your best friend’s party.
And when you ask me, “Mom, have you seen
that little green rubber fish that I won at the carnival
four years ago”—yeah, I know you won’t ask me,
but if you do—I am prepared to say No,
no I haven’t. I’m sorry.