Faded tan fur and pink ears.

No visible eyes.

A child’s crooked stitching holding the hole on the nose together.

This battered old teddy bear is probably trash to everyone but me. Its eyes are all the way down by it’s nose so that you have to pull the head back to see them. They are made of thin strips of black felt; I suppose they’re suppose to give the bear the look of sleeping. Its shiny black nose is long since gone, a dog also long since gone chewed it off but as the stubborn child I was, I wouldn’t allow it to be thrown out. It was years later when I decided to sew it together, resulting in the criss cross stitching and inch long thread dangling like snot from its’ nose.

This bear holds too many memories to count, but overall it makes me think of childhood. The innocence of running around the house with the bear’s hand in mine, and not caring about much else. It makes me think of happier days, the times when I felt light.

Even though the happy days certainly existed, there were also days when the child who ran through the house didn’t feel like a child. She felt sad or even just empty. But luckily the bear was always there. It was safety and comfort in a world full of back and forth between parents’ houses, trying to find her own opinion in the sea of hateful words from one parent against the other, and dealing with stress beyond her years.

The girl grew up, she adapted to the continuous back and forth and it seems almost normal to her now. She’s okay she thinks. Not great right now, but maybe she’ll feel better soon. She hopes so at least. She may have grown up, but there are times when she feels like a child, unable to handle stress, and crying so hard her whole body shakes.

But the bear is still there, cast to the side on her bed. She still finds herself clutching the faded old thing to her chest when things get too hard and she’s much too alone. It’s a companion, even today, and it’s something she doesn’t think she’ll ever be able to get rid of.