Village Bears And More

I remember my first teddy bear. He’s not here, or I would include a picture of him; he’s back at my parents’ house on the east coast. To be truthful, it might be better off to let him stay out of the limelight. He’s a shadow of his former self, though a very loveable shadow.

I’m sure when I first got him he was fuzzy and firm enough that he could sit up on his own, but over the years his fur got worn down to a felt-like consistency, and putting him against anything but a corner would make him slump over – left, right, forward, it wouldn’t matter. He just slumps.

The stuffing is packed down in him, and he’s floppy as a bean bag. And he has the smell of syrup about him – from all the Saturday mornings I dragged him along and had pancakes with him by my side.

He’s missing an eye. It wasn’t even a button, but a kind of ironed-on piece of felt. I think he lost it years and years ago.

He’s in pretty bad shape, to put it nicely. And yet, I wouldn’t have him any other way.

I can’t even remember him in his pre-beat-up incarnation. To me, he’s always been that way. Any of my toddler, three-year-old memories of when he was young and handsome have long since evaporated, leaving me with the loveable little bear I’ve known ever since I can (literally) remember.

All that wear and tear? That’s memories. That’s love in physical form. That’s being unable to be parted from something.

When I’m old and worn-out and perpetually slumping (though, God forbid, hopefully not missing an eye), I hope someone loves ME enough that that’s the only way they want to remember me…