Drift Road

On the shelf sat a little gray fox with wide eyes like a four year old. He gathered dust for years, the memory of a long lost friend taken from a vicious animal.
I often sat with him on a leather couch, talking in a low voice and scratching his ears. I'd pick at torn bits of the couch from the big dog that laid there most nights. He was soft like the spring grass in our back yard filled with clovers. I looked for years for a four leaf clover to give to my parents but never ever found one.
Now the fox gathers dust on a shelf near an unused bed, a mattress from yet another person that left the world; the only to leave on his own terms.
He has lost his happy purrs and no longer hisses back at the cats. I grew and misplaced it where hiding places in stairwells full of pillows were a common thing and snow was beautiful. When the leather couch sat in that small living room and fluff sandwiches meant bloody arms.
The house is empty. The Malibu that brought romance and images of the past is long gone.
The raspberry bushes have died.