The Mulo Factor.

8.5.07.

Mulo sits on my bed.

Content. Blissful. Unaware of what is happening around him.Small and mute. Oh so small.Beady little eyes that can’t detect pain or sorrow or misery.

I hug him tight at night. Eyes trying hard to shut out the pain. I grab him like the life of him could save the life in me.

But there is no life. In this stuffed anteater of mine.

And yet his face holds millions of memories. His tummy boasts of idealistic remedies for a life of love one could only wish to have, of a grand hope of a single dream lasting for eternity…with two smiling faces grinning up from the cracked canvas that is his shirt.

He sits. And he waits.

With me, he waits.

For a sign. For a hint. For someone to tell him it will be ok. That the future is filled with enamored success. And that love does not have to come at the price of life. Somehow, he knows true solace for me rests in a single thing. It is the thing that gave him the shirt on his back. …that thing called love.

But wait.

He sits. Mulo sits on my bed. Two beady eyes not really staring at anything. And the tears I drop dampen his fur in cold disarray.

But he doesn’t care. He’s only a stuffed fantasy.

So loved by me. But entirely forgotten by the other.

My Mulo.