my bear

I can see my bear sitting besides me on my bed as I type. Hes always there. White fur turning silver with age stuffing popping out of his collar letters, numbers, hearts, trains, dinosaurs and apples strewn across his attire. Two pink rabbit slippers adorn his feet, his nose a now glossy warn down plastic the only velvet left lays on the border, his eyes are glassy and wise. My father gave him to me when I was 9 a month before he passed. He has been my hero over the years, my night in colorful pajamas.

Throughout my childhood my father was in prison when he was let out I spent all my time with him after a month of freedom he passed and I was devastated. I couldn't even cry all I thought was that I had to be strong, the world was a horrible place and I believe if I acted brave and strong I would be and nothing would be able to break or destroy me. The first two poems I wrote were for his funerals pamphlet. I wrote about the Eskimo and butterfly kisses we exchanged, and my bear.

Throughout the years my bear has sat on my bed watching as I grow, and change. When I was young I used to beg him to move and speak something I believed he could do since I read A Little Princess. When ever I laid in bed hugging him tight against my chest like a life preserver I hoped he would somehow magically start hugging me back and whisper into my ear the words that would let me know that everything was all right and no matter how bad it seemed to get the world would keep spinning and the sun would keep rising. To this day sometimes I feel he finally going to open his sewed on mouth and speak some wise words of advice.

However instead of speaking he reminds me of the ways to be strong. As I bury my teary face into his soft fur the numbers on his chest remind me to breathe. 1 in 2 out 3 in, relax sweetie calm down, 1 in 2 out 3 in just breathe. I close my eyes and relax and just try to clear my mind. I count to three and remember that though things might seem horrible at the moment over the next three days I will smile and laugh again.

Usually after I calm down I turn to writing using the letters strewn across his chest I develop poetry and stories that I can use to transform the world around me. With my words I can make anything real, I could turn this ugly horrible pain into something beautiful. As I sat up every night flashlight in hand, fingers gripping a pen or novel under a tent of sheets, yellow from the light my bear was there. He would lay besides me listening to the shuffling of pages or the words I let no one else hear.

When I was younger my father would send me pictures in the mail, handkerchiefs with Disney characters drawn in pen, cards and characters the lines so perfect I could barely believe he drew them himself. So one day I picked up my pencil and started drawing dinosaurs like the ones on my bear. Huge tails curving to the sky with big thighs and tiny arms all roaring. They were T-Rex's, strong beasts the king of the jungle. With scales like armor they weren't scared of anything. Strong and powerful something I wanted to be. As I grew up my art developed into another means of escape. I drew and painted still life's, fruit like the apples adorned on his attire. As religion began to play a vital role in my art I would often write about eve and her apple using it as a subject in countless paintings and stories or poetry.

Another subject of mine were hearts. I wore them in my jewelery, drew them on my notes and home work and played with them in my sketch book. I designed hearts with cities, deserts, oceans ansd setting suns, pens and papers, my bear, and brushes and pallets in the middle. I drew these hearts on everything to represent the things I held dear, where I've lived, and places important to me. Later when I began to do tattoo work my first tattoo was one of these hearts with the paint brush and pallet inside.

As I hit high school my bear began to age, his fur began to get dirty, his seams weak always from my failed attempts at sewing. Within a few days the tear would get longer and his stuffing would began to flow out again so I decided to enter a fashion sewing class to fix this problem. Instantly I fell in love with fashion and sewing and began making my own clothes as well as playing surgeon for my bear.

Over the years my bear has come to represent so much of my life, and the things that have shaped me into who I am. Though my father was unable to watch me grow up I've had My knight in colorful pajamas by my side. He was the perfect present when I really think about it. This old grungy stuffed animal with wise eyes, and a musty scent has been such a huge influence and symbol for who I am. His tear streaked pajamas and matted fur display how much he has been loved and has loved a young growing child.