The right stuffing

I still have my first teddy bear, named Teddy (how original). He is older than I am. He was my older brother Scott's bear, so the story goes. Scott gave him to me when I was but a babe. I, however, did not pass him along to the next sibling. Teddy and I suited each other admirably, so he stayed with me.

Teddy has long been a creature of comfort and company, but he’s not much of an eater or drinker. When I was a little girl, I shoved the red buds from springtime trees into a crack in Teddy's hard shell of a mouth. I figured he must be hungry, and wouldn't a bear like berries? Such were my thoughts. Then, thinking he might be thirsty, I poured in some milk. I was sharing. Over time, the resulting mess turned unfriendly inside my bear, and my mother had to perform surgery, a tree-berry-and-ruined-fluff-ectomy. He stills bears the stitches. The bear survived, but his voice box stopped working. Eventually, the silent voice box migrated downward, along with much of the remaining stuffing. Eventually, it had to be removed as a nonfunctioning body part.

Gravity and wear have a way of causing padding and parts to shift, making us lumpy or saggy or both, even as we become and remain lovable and, if we’re fortunate, wise enough to know that the downward trend isn’t all the important.

The years have not dimmed Teddy’s shiny-black eyes nor his ability to radiate acceptance and understanding, though they have done damage to his two-tone fuzz and the tilt of his head. May the years be no less kind to you and me.