Junior was a gift for my third birthday. I don't really remember what he looked like brand new though I do remember him being taller than me at the time. Today, he is a deflated teddy bear missing an eye, replacement nose crafted from a scrap of leopard print sock. He's stuffed with those pinhead styrofoam beads, the ones that cascade out of the tiniest hole and stick to everything. As a kid, I threw him against the wall when I was angry and sobbed into him more times than I'll ever be able to remember. For years he was being patched together almost monthly and there are threads in some version of brown in sloppy stitches on each extremity.
He was a gift from my beloved Uncle Kevin and over the years he would tease me that Junior was still around. He drove me to college one year, Junior perched in the backseat, and marveled that his gift was so well-traveled. On occasion he'd ask how Junior was doing, and I'd reassure him that he was doing well, staying out of trouble. When I bought my first home, I took a picture on my front step with the one-eyed fellow and sent the picture to Kevin. Junior has outlived him by several years now. I sobbed into Junior when we found out Kevin had cancer. And years later, after my husband's shirt was suitably soaked by my tears, I cried into Junior when Kevin died. I cried into him when we had our first miscarriage and punched him hard enough to split a seam with our second loss. The bear has absorbed some grief.
He's also my childhood bear, my keeper of secrets, the reliable comrade who propped me up when I was sick and where I rested my head on many a late night phone call with my best friend. After I married I had a real, live human to cry into, to rest against, and Junior saw fewer tears and cushioned fewer naps. Even more so, when I had children, the complete wildness of my days meant I'd often forget when I showered last, much less made the time to lean my head against Junior and read a book. If I'm honest, while I had hopes that my children might one day love him, I assumed that was an ill-placed hope. They'd have their own dear stuffed friends, their own once-new toys that should, appropriately, be tasked with weathering their own lives. I propped Junior in my son's bedroom corner and tasked him with oversight.
But Junior has surprised me with a second life. For the last several months, he has laid, smashed and deflated as ever, on the floor by my son's bed. He is, once again, where I lay my head, but now it's for the purpose of singing Twinkle, Twinkle for the 75th time. I'm not sure when he moved over to that perfect spot. I'm sure my husband or I grabbed him one night as the nearest soft object upon which to lay our heads while we prayed for the toddler to close his eyes. And he has remained there, the perfect cushion at the end of a long day.
A few nights ago, after books and blocks and lots of singing, I laid in the dark listening to my son breathe. My chest hitched, that hiccup of emotion you get when you feel too much too fast. My son was growing, his breath already sounding older than I was ready for, and my head rested on the bear Kevin gave me at his age. I breathed then like my boy breathes now, and at his size my arm wrapped around Kevin's impractical and perfect gift. Kevin, who my babies will not know this side of Heaven. It hurt. But it also radiated, vibrated with knowing. Knowing how delighted Kevin would be to see that ridiculous bear, still holding strong at 39, cushioning my head as I sang his great-nephew to sleep.
"How's Junior doing these days?"
"He's doing well, staying out of trouble."
