I remember being scared at the hospital.
You brought me a musical turtle to make me smile.
You let me name her. I felt proud because she was mine.
I felt safe when she sang to me at night.
She was alive and she loved me.
I gave her the name of Turtle Wurtle.
I remember being sick but happy to be going home.
I wanted to hold my turtle and not let her go.
I wanted to take her everywhere with me.
Her soft green plush, her patchwork shell with ruffles,
her ruffled bonnet and big eyes and her winder
that played the Brahms lullaby.
I smiled when I was aloud to, and was angry
when I couldn’t take her to town.
I remember crying when Turtle Wurtle
would be taken away for something I had done wrong.
The dog chewed on her, only a little tear.
She wasn’t as bight as she once was,
with the years of love and hugs and tear stained cloth.
Then I wound her to tight one night and she stopped singing.
I still loved her and held her.
She made me feel safe.
Then the dog got a hold of her again and chewed her into a mess.
I still wanted her, I named her and she was mine.
She was not a stuffed animal, she was alive.
My father threw her away because she was dirty.
I cried and was angry.
He promised to buy me a new one.
But it wouldn’t be the same.
Turtle Wurtle had her own personality
and he killed her.
WoPoLi 
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