Teddy the Bear

Teddy the Bear

The bear lays where it has always laid, on the bed. A more precise statement would be he lies on my bed and has since forever. From the doorway one cannot see detail, only that he stares upwards (not a malleable teddy, his limbs do not shift). He is a beige color that has faded from what used to be a brawny gold, the color of his glory days. The one article of clothing intended to give dignity to this naked little fellow is a jaunty red bow tie, still attached firmly (no matter how hard small fingers pulled). He is also flattened from countless nights of being used as a pillow
He is not much this bear named Teddy seen from the doorway. Flattened and faded and alone with eyes that stare forever upwards. He (It is not the appropriate word to describe Teddy) almost appears to be a failure, in his last stage of use. Those eyes are cold perhaps because mentally he has already hardened himself in preparation of the final goodbye . One can envision him inside a trash bag on the curb in the suburbs with only an ear sticking out. After all, thats how the barbies went.
From the doorway one cannot see his beauty.

Sitting next to this stitched creature is a new experience. The faded fur is soft from countless strokes from tiny pink hands carefully guiding a comb up and down. The nose still has the original layer of brown ceramic but only at the edges, the top is dulled and scratched from the biting of nubs of new teeth. Those eyes do not look cold up close because one can now see the circle of blue around the black plastic. His eyes are reassuring and gentle, eyes that comforted when I was punished for forgetting to...for not cleaning the...for teaching my brother to say...
From the amiable smile my eyes are drawn to the neck of this creature. Here is where you can see the neat stitches of a sixteen year old carrying on where the twelve year old's jagged attempt had not been able to do a lasting job. Looking at his neck you can see where he was saved after being nearly decapitated in the washing machine, the time when his head fell back and sodden cotton poured out of that gaping hole where none used to be. I am amused now but looking back there were so many tears that first time; all at the horrified idea that this bear was mortal after all and might not be forever at my pillow waiting to provide comfort and a peaceful sleep.
Then to my eyes rest upon his stomach, where I have slept since I was a baby. As if to prove this fact several blond strands are distinguishable against the beige fur. This habit has made me immune to pillows, though they are piled underneath his head, it is merely for his contentment, for show. Maybe to alleviate the arthritis he is getting in his lower back, he has, after all, outlived his other friends. All were given away, either sneakily added to Salvation Army bags when their owners were busy with tea parties or the owners themselves turn coated, stuffing what they used to depend on into a plastic bag whose travels would only lead to a dumpster.
Teddy is old. Both up close and far away can lead one to draw that conclusion. He is no longer robust and his nose no longer shines a mahogany brown. His eyes are scratched and might be misinterpreted as cold. But it is his familiarity that helps him retain his beauty. Every imperfection is a memory (even an outsider can see that) and those memories are full of love. No, my Teddy will not be discarded the way his Saturday night poker playing buddies went. He will live out the rest of his life on my bed, resting comfortably on his throne of pillows, his eyes forever warm because they will not have to face that rejection, the final good bye.