I saw an 80-year-old toy today, a little iron soldier from Argentina in the 1940s. My friend Leo’s father has kept it with him since the age of 5.
I don’t think I have anything with me from the age of 5. We consume things so fast these days and toss remnants away mercilessly. Phones one year old are not fast enough. People couple of encounters later are not interesting any more.
Old and worn, but still looking splendid in his green uniform, the soldier has this wistful smile on its round face that’s mottled with rust, and out of its big painted eyes that are not looking anywhere in particular.
With the help of a drop of mineral oil and a little push to start, it even walks.
It made effort walking towards me, with that clickety-clack sound, eyes not looking anywhere, and stopped by my feet.
Now I love the way we communicate.
My mind wanders to an old fairy tale about a tin soldier that ended up giving its life in fire for love. And strangely, a memory of how my dog, Deuce, used to wait for me for hours by the bedroom door, his entire body leaning against the door, when I was sick in bed a door away from him.
When all the fake liveliness in this world goes away, creatures like you two ought to live forever.