Poor Teddy

brown teddy bear on brown wooden bench outside
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They whiskey was waiting, hidden in the shoe basket in the closet. A new, unopened bottle, waiting, just in case… The bottle of nice perfume from the tax-free shop stood at the very back of the low cabinet next to the bookcase; one had to get down on one’s knees and still reach far to be able to get it.

The still unopened wrappings around the fancy shirts from the Gentleman’s shop – not made to order, but still… were piling up in the cabinet where comforters and sheets would be.

Her Rococo chairs were moved up into the attic, for further transport to some antiques dealer who could transform the value of them into sheer tax money at the state-owned liquor store. Ah, well, a small percentage did also benefit the distillery.

Now she was admitted to the South side hospital and longed for the Teddy bear. The one she was given by her daughter. The Teddy bear who already had been providing comfort in a hospital once before, a long time ago when the grief was inconsolable.

But the Teddy was stored away. At the very back of the top shelf in the bedroom closet. Where she would not be able to get it without a tall step-stool, good balance, foolish courage and free from age related ailments and fibrillation.

person s foot wearing a white shoes stepping on a wooden stool
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He was so kind and helped her take out cash from the automatic teller machine, but every time also gave himself a bonus. And a visit to the Gentleman’s store, since he was in town anyways, sort of.

The helpful pensioner; an old friend who just is really so helpful and kind. He took take to remove all the unnecessary jewels and antique furniture for free, of course. More money into the state tax fund, and a small back-up in the hall closet.

And fine perfume from her daughter was not to be squandered. Or even used. Or even enjoyed by smelling it. She remembered it’s fragrance.

And the Teddy was loved.

Photo by Pixabay on Pexels.com

Published by honeywritingblog

Sharing my best loved honey based recipies, along with short stories collected during life in Northern California and Stockholm, Sweden. Well, stories from other joints as well, and not only my experiences. Some will appear in English and some in Swedish. Deal with it.

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