Goodbye Sally

Today Meya had to say goodbye to her dear friend "Sally the Horse." Sally was a Christmas present to Meya when she was two years old. She's been well loved. Meya liked to sit on her and pretend to ride across the living room. Madi used Sally as a chair when watching PBS. And Sally was the center of many princess rescues, cowboy chases, and farm adventures.

What the pictures above do not show is that Sally has slowly come unstitched from the base of her neck, down her back. White cottony stuffing comes out in hand-fulls of fluff. And Sally's back legs are broken, making her hazardous for riders. As hard as I tried, I couldn't figure out a way to save her.

So at 8:30AM this morning we held a memorial service for Sally before leaving her next to the blue garbage bins for the weekly trash pickup. Madi made a sign that read, "Rest in Peace, Sally." And Meya hugged her and cried huge crocodile-sized tears. She kept saying, "You've been such a good horse, Sally. I love you."

This isn't the first time I've watched a child have to part with a beloved item. For Leasie, it was her special blanket "Ba Ba" who had been cut, resewn, and loved until it was little more than a rag. For Madi, it was her ducky, a stuffed duck with a large orange ribbon around its neck, who we accidentally left at a Days Inn on Cape Cod.

I had mixed feelings about this morning, watching Meya mourn. As an adult, I rationally knew this was for the best--and knew that, if needed, Sally could be replaced. All I had to do was pack the kids in the car, drive to the nearest Target, and find a new Sally. But Meya's emotions were real. Honest to her core. She truly loved this inanimate object with her entire five-year-old heart. And for that, I was so sad for her.

I also knew, sadly, that this would only be the first of many goodbyes. I remember the day we packed up my blanket, "softie," into my mom's cedar hope chest. I remember selling my favorite doll at a yard sale, she had been so loved that for years she only had one arm. We called her affectionately "one-armed dolly." Those were hard goodbyes. But then later, as a military child, I learned that saying goodbye to blankets and toys were nothing compared to saying goodbye to places, schools, neighbors, and friends.

So this morning, I mourned with Meya--with her as she said goodbye to Sally--and with her, knowing full well, that this was only the beginning of goodbyes.

I found our copy of "The Velveteen Rabbit" which I'll read to her this afternoon in an effort to bring her some comfort.

And hopefully, in her five-year-old way, she'll begin to understand that goodbyes that hurt only mean that you've felt real love.

And that's a good thing.