So you wonder: "Was that the end of the story?"
"I'm sorry." I reply. "I would have been more clear about it, but we had to have this part where we discuss whether it was the end of the story first."
"So now is it the end of the story?"
"It's the end of one story. There are others."
"Ones with me in it. And Pooh?" You ask.
"And Piglet, and Eeyore, yes. Don't you remember?"
"Yes. I remember. But then when I think of them they seem different. I remember Pooh, but I forgot how I got to be there."
"You belonged there so we're reminding you. Do you remember the day where Pooh and Piglet tried to catch the Heffalump?"
"They didn't catch it?"
"No." I say.
"Because Pooh wouldn't know what to do with it. Did I catch it?"
"Would you know what to do with it?"
"I would if you told me."
"I'll tell you, and other things too."
"And Pooh. You'll tell Pooh? Because he doesn't remember things so well. And he'd like to remember them better."
"I would like that too." I said.
"I'm going to have some tea now." You said.
"And a cookie." You said.
"And a lot of honey, for Pooh." Someone said.
"Will you come?" You asked.
"I might." I said, because it was so nice of you to ask.
"The bouncing didn't hurt Pooh when he fell?" You wondered.
"Too soft." I said.
"That's good." You said nodding your head.
Then you and Pooh left because there wasn't any more story for today.
"Is that the end of the story?" asked Christopher Robin.
"That's the end of that one. There are others."
"About Pooh and Me?"
"And Piglet and Rabbit and all of you. Don't you remember?"
"I do remember, and then when I try to remember, I forget."
"That day when Pooh and Piglet tried to catch the Heffalump——"
"They didn't catch it, did they?"
"Pooh couldn't, because he hasn't any brain. Did I catch it?"
"Well, that comes into the story."
Christopher Robin nodded.
"I do remember," he said, "only Pooh doesn't very well, so that's why he likes having it told to him again. Because then it's a real story and not just a remembering."
"That's just how I feel," I said.
Christopher Robin gave a deep sigh, picked his Bear up by the leg, and walked off to the door, trailing Pooh behind him. At the door he turned and said, "Coming to see me have my bath?"
"I might," I said.
"I didn't hurt him when I shot him, did I?"
"Not a bit."
He nodded and went out, and in a moment I heard Winnie-the-Pooh—bump, bump, bump—going up the stairs behind him.
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