bear

But my bear, he was saved from a similar fate by my very wise grandmother, who kept him so that I could take him back a couple of years ago. He's not the most beautiful of bears. His eyes always look a bit cross, and his nose is a bit droopier than he might like, giving him a smug expression, and his fur is matted up all over, having survived several laundry cycles.

He's a good bear. He was very patient with me when I was little. Poor guy got dressed up as Mama Bear for my childhood production of Goldilocks. He got repeatedly squished and stuffed between the bed and the wall as I, even as a child, was a very active sleeper. He survived my toy whims with nary a whimper.

He listened to me.

If my bear could talk, he'd tell you stories that would make your toes curl. The truth is, I may be blabby when it comes to gossip and superficial secrets, but with the -real- secrets, the really important stuff, I'm a vault. But my bear? He knows them all.

He's in retirement now. He spends most of his days sitting on the window sill above my bed. He's probably stiff and sore -- I should make him a pillow or let him stay on the bed. It's hard to reconcile a grown-up sense of design (which, it must be said, I seldom use) with a childhood attachment to a teddy bear, but in a lot of ways, I think I owe it to him. Really, I've neglected him too long.