Leaving Gift

There's a row of stuffed animals on my shelf.

A few years ago,

there once was a gap that confirmed the

absence of

a fox -

an orange fox

with big whiskers and a white belly.

A few years ago,

I looked at my father

(as he approached our front door),

handed it to him and said 'Take it' -

'I love you', I said,

and he took it -

my orange fox -

stuffed it into a bag,

and headed to the door.

Before I could comprehend

that not all men

wish to keep space on their shelves

for an orange fox

and a daughter who,

not knowing what leaving meant,

gave you a leaving gift -

the door closed,

he took it with him,

and a gap appeared on my shelf.

There's a green frog,

who,

many years later,

took his place,

and the shelf, although complete,

was notably

empty

and looking at it now,

I have realised

I miss the presence of

the warm orange stitching,

big whiskers

and white belly

more than

the man it was given to.