Most of us have had one. Some of us still do. A teddy bear - someone we cuddled with at night when we were sleepy. Or cried all over when we were sad. Or squeezed tightly during times of fear. Mine has been with me all his life and mine. I have no idea who gave him to me. He has seen me through childhood, helped me survive first love and break ups. He has been to college with me, travelled to the UK for a year, and is the bear I hold dearest in this world. His name is Fuzzy, and he is now anything but. He was eviscerated one summer when we were on vacation and our dogs ripped him apart in protest of just having a dog sitter and not family for two weeks. In my childish, un-trained way, I stitched him back together, and always swore I would make him a jacket to cover the scars - he is still naked 43 years later.
I was reminded of the longevity of teddy bears today, when I was wishing a college friend happy birthday. Her bear, Claude, popped into my head and I asked about him.
He is still with her. I remember talking with Claude when I visited this friend in London nearly thirty years ago. He is a wise bear. He is a gentle bear. And he is still imparting smiles.
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