Teddy

I unbutton your vest and unfasten your overalls.
The ones I made when I decided that protecting you and letting you last decades longer was more important than being able to touch you.
I pull off your vest and see the flannel skin grafts on your chest.
You always needed some surgery or other.
I remember the first one.

I loved to rub the back of my thumb against the back of your leg.
I wore the fur off and then wore a hole in your skin.
I was terrified when I found it.
I ran to Mom and showed her your boo-boo.
I watched Mom sew it closed.
The pucker gave the spot friction.
I decided to rub your unappealing stomach and only use your leg for emergencies and big problems.
Eventually I wore a hole through your stomach too, so I migrated to your back.
But after that first time when I was five, I was the one to sew you up.

I covered your mouth with a cup until the anesthesia set you to sleep.
"Scalpel"
Mouth covered by a handkerchief, I handed myself the scissors to cut the thread.

Over the years, your fluff condensed, after being slept on, sat on, hugged and trampled.
I tore some fluff out of an old comforter and stuffed it in your chest.
This one heart shaped piece would dangle out, and I was always stuffing it back in.
Until the summer after you turned 18.

Then I decided major surgery was needed.
I went to JoAnn's, bought a bag of stuffing, gray flannel for the skin grafts, and camoflage flannel for your new clothes.
I would have preferred plaid pajamas for you, but they didn't have any.
"Scalpel" I said as I passed myself the scissors to clean up your edges so I could stitch easier.
I pulled the blanket fluff out of your body and packed you full of fresh fiber.
Now you can't sit anymore, and your arms stick out at different angles, and you look fatter.
But still, it's better this way.
I haven't touched you since.

Knowing it'll help you last, I've been roughing up your vest and pants instead.
As I run the back of my thumb across your belly, I'm 5, 10, 15, 20...
I feel safe.
I want to sob hysterically.
I want to fall asleep.
You were always there.
Dad wasn't always there.
Mom wasn't always there.
Even God wasn't always there.
But you were.

I tried to name you, but in the end, I'd forget and end up calling you, "Teddy."
It was the only name that stuck, unimaginative as it was.

I remember a picture of my first Easter.
I couldn't even recognize you.
Your fur was fluffy, not matted.
It was white, not dirty grey.
Your eyes and nose were bright, not chipped.
And you wore a yellow ribbon.
You were as big as I was.
I had to drag you around by your ear.

Why did I fall in love with you?
What was it that made you essential to fall asleep?

I used to use you for a pillow.
You used to fit in the crook of my arm.
But even now I wake up and look for you if I knock you off the bed.
I feel better feeling you under my arm or against my back.
You've been in my life too long for me to simply put you on a shelf.
I will always love you.