This is my bear, stolen from my brother when he decided he didn't need it any more. My bear doesn't have a name, never did. My bear has had his eyes and nose loved right off and can't seem to sit up straight any more. My bear is full of holes and his fur is almost all gone.
Beside my bear is a poem I cut from a "woman's Day' magazine when I was 12 years old. They look pretty good together.
My bear has been rescued from the garbage more times than I can count. Whenever a new hole would spring up my mom would try to toss him out...she refused to fix it. So, I basically taught myself how to sew using the biggest needles I could get my hands on (and one time using a curved mattress needle) with thread that never matched. He was counting on me to rescue him.
My bear never cared that I could go years without touching him, yet he always came with me with every move, every apartment, and in every house. My bear has witnessed floods, tornadoes, tragedy and loss and never came up missing. He is the best secret keeper and knows how to keep his mouth shut.
He doesn't mind cat hair, the fact that I never ever make my bed or need me to wash his drawers...he doesn't need batteries, an instruction manual or accessories. He's just a bear.
He sits all slumped in the corner of my room in a rocking chair that was my Grandfathers...both need some major overhauling. He never cares how fat I get, if my roots show or if I am currently employed. He 'gets' me.
And the poem...words I hope I live my life by:
If I can stop one heart from breaking,
I shall not live in vain;
If I can ease one life the aching,
or cool one pain,
or help a fainting robin
unto his nest again,
I shall not live in vain.
Emily Dickinson
So here's to all our favorite blankies, woobies, bears and bunnies...may your comforting spirit never leave.
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