I can tell it's spring by the way her boots smell of plastic and pollen. I can tell from the way light filters in, casting shadows, illuminating the air with particles of dust and cotton. Her boots are clean because she's too young to walk, to make a mess of them yet. Her mother places them by my face, just at the side of the new bed. She's getting older now, bigger too. And so they bought her a new bed. I have some space now, I can stretch out my void full body, my printless limbs. 

 She's laughing now, and her mother is saying something I can no longer understand–their language is something that I have lost, lost with time. Yet I can tell it's joy. She squeals and laughs and her mother holds her in the center of the room. Holding her hand and spinning in a circle. The dying light bounces off the two of them, I can almost feel it by proximity–the kiss of heat.

 Her mother puts her down onto the new bed, I can feel her tiny body rolling around above me. She'll cry in a few hours–like she almost always does. And her mother will come back, she will pick her up and hold her. Hold her and spin in a circle, whispering things in a rhythmic tune that I no longer understand.

 I can tell it's summer by the way her boots are stained with green grass and her soles are filled with lines of dirt. Her father gets angry when she runs inside and tracks mud against the floor. She places her boots in the same spot that she always has, just beyond my face, beyond my reach. She's older now and her bed is even larger–although the space under it is not. I'm crammed in between all of the stuffed animals and dolls, the clothes and clutter that she refuses to put anywhere else. I like to imagine the mess keeps me warm, heats my desolate body. 

 The floor is a mess as well. She leaves in the morning for something and comes back in the afternoon, and when she does–she wreaks havoc among the things that reside in this room. Throwing her dolls and drinking out of ceramic cups with her stuffies. She spills glue on the carpet and glitter on her clothes. 

I tried talking to her once. It was a while ago, a year or a month–I can't quite remember. I pushed out a ball, a red ball made of rubber from underneath the bed. I just wanted to let her know that I'm here, I wanted to talk to someone. But I think I scared her, she cried for her mother and father, she hopped up on the bed and screamed something through tears. 

Her mother checks on me every night now at her request. She looks under the bed and shines on my existence with a flashlight. She doesn't see me–she sees through me. I don't think I'll try and talk to her again, I think that I''ll try to stay quiet. Try to stay silent. 

 I can tell it's fall by the mud on her shoes and the trailings of leaves that follow her around. I can tell by that musty smell that never leaves her shoes. The rubber boots are gone, she put them in the closet years ago and never took them out again. Now she wears shoes with a checkered pattern–just tall enough to reach her ankle. She's long grown out of those dresses she used to wear, that tiara too. 

 Her friends come over every sixth or seventh day–they come in and they sit around in a circle and they giggle and they laugh. Although she doesn't laugh like she used to when she was little, it feels forced now, it feels like an escape of pressure. She cries more too, she cries sometimes when she looks in her mirror without her shirt, she cries when her mother yells at her, she cries when watching shows on the new TV above her dresser. 

 There is often less noise outside of her room. The home used to be filled with joy but now it's quiet save for the voices that come from her device, or the people arguing on TV. I think her mother is sad now, she never smiles when she stops by this room.

 There is a boy now too. He comes over most evenings. Most of the time he and she are in this room–talking with each other in hushed tones. But sometimes they come in here and they kiss. They kiss and they cuddle above me. When it's late they'll turn up the TV and they'll move the bed in brush like strokes. 

 I feel bad when they do this–not because they shouldn't but because I can't. I don't remember the feeling of love but I remember the word. I remember how much it meant and how much I cared for it. I don't remember the feeling, no, but I remember the word. 

 It's days like this that tear me apart. It's the days where I can't tell when it is that I feel especially horrible. It's the dark days where no light comes through because she is gone and her curtains are closed, it's when the home is filled with nothing but the silence of passive existence. It's the days where the house remains so quiet that sometimes I can hear myself breath–hear myself whisper. 

 I think about my mother and father on these kinds of days. I don't remember their faces, and I don't remember their names. I don't remember their tones or their voices. But I can't forget them. I remember them in the way I see her mother and father. Their way her mother will sit on the edge of her bed while she cries, whispering sweet things to her. The way her father stands at the edge of the door, using his hands to express himself in bold motions. 

I don't remember the voice of my mother or father.

 It's days like this that are the worst, when I wish I could sleep or go on to some place where I didn't have to watch, where I didn't have to be so passive. Where I could walk and talk and breathe, where I could be with someone other than my thoughts, where I could have a face and a voice, a purpose and an existence. 

 It's days like this that I want more, need more.

 I can tell it's winter by the way her shoes track in snow. I can tell by the way everyone's voices start to lift up in the tidings of joy. Her room is clean now, she's older and she keeps her things aligned. The room is filled with the smell of cinnamon and lavender during the winter. She's older and she's moving on I think. 

 I think this because most of her things are inside of boxes that line the room. Most of her shoes are inside of a container. Her clothes are mostly gone and her toys are hidden from me. I don't know where she's going but I tried to stop her, I tried to talk to her again by throwing something from under the bed, I did this until there was nothing left, I tried to get her to stay, if not forever than just for a moment. But she has no recollection of time like I do, she has no notion that a millenia is only the glimpse of a second. 

 I think she's leaving me and I feel scared for the day she does. I'll be here until the house collapses or the bed is destroyed. She doesn't know I exist, she doesn't know that I'm bound to this bed. She doesn't understand how much I have grown to love her, she doesn't understand that I am not a monster like she used to think. I am her friend, I am her greatest friend. 

 I do not have eyes, if I did I would cry. I do not have a good mouth either, only the static of wind is at my disposal. I do not have arms or feet. If I did, then I would crawl out from under here and hug her, I would beg her to stay, beg her not to go. 

 I would plead for her to stay, for just a little longer.