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Christopher Robin has not come back. It is clear to all the animals of Hundred Acre Woods that simply… He won’t come back. He may never come back.
But Pooh still wakes up as if he’s going to meet him. Sometimes, he makes it to the edge of the woods and tries to climb a rock to peer over the bushes to the house in the distance. Other times, he wanders through and says hello to all of his friends. He fills his time by lending help where he can.
Today, Pooh finds a tall spot up on a hill where the trees make a clearing at the top. He hums a spiffy tune, interrupted only by the occasional slather of honey slurping. By the time he lugs himself to the peak, the sun starts to brighten over the sky. The darkness begins to burst into glowing pinks and oranges. The stars blink out like summer fire flies. As the light drifts down into the woods, it starts to cast shadows through the trees and makes the leaves dance.
Pooh takes a deep breath. Cold air nips at his lungs, and he counters it with another handful of honey. The honey jar is set aside, and Pooh plops down in a patch of grass, lying down on the flat of his back. The morning dew clings to his fur with a splash of water. It doesn’t bother him in the slightest. He smacks his lips full of the gooey delight. The stickiness is perfect. The sunrise is enchanting. The sweetness is beyond his wildest dreams. And then, he wonders what kinds of things he should dream about. He thinks it’s been a long time since he has dreamed.
He misses Christopher Robin dearly.
“What are you dreaming of, Christopher Robin?” he asks nobody.
The warmth makes him sleepy. Pooh yawns and giggles when he accidentally covers his snout with his honeyed hand. He licks it with a giggle before stretching his limbs delightfully.
“Oh bother, it might be only sunrise, but this seems like a good time for a nap,” he muses. “Maybe, I shall dream of delicious honey.”
But, his eyes flutter shut. And still, Pooh does not dream.