The Secret Life of My Teddy Bear

I used to be a small brown teddy bear with round black eyes. I was not very big, but to the little girl who owned me I was everything. I remember the day she was the first to look at me. She pressed me close to her heart and I knew that I was at home. Since then I have not been a toy on a shelf any longer. I became her secret friend. She took me to bed every night. She said her little prayers and laid me down next to her pillow. She would cry here and there, and I could even feel the tears run on my fur. She would embrace me even more, as I could not have wiped her eyes dry. I was not able to speak; in my heart I heard. I possessed her secrets, her fears and her dreams. She narrated to me about her day at school, her teachers, her friends and games she played. It was her safe place. There were happy moments too. Birthdays I remember, as she used to fly me into in little ribbons, and pretend that I was a guest at the party. She would sometimes put me on the chair, give me something to eat that I could not eat and laugh hard like I had told her a funny joke. She would take me around the compound and show me flowers, chickens and even cooking pots of her mother. I was just a teddy bear to the world and alive with her. I would go with her too. I went with her to visit her grandmother in the village, and I hid in her small bag. On the bus she would grab me by the arm when she felt scared of the noises of loud sounds or when she felt strangers were looking at her. When, at night, in the village, she was out of her own element, she took me to her bosom, and I comforted her. She was my protection, and I was little.  [Image Source](https://pixabay.com/photos/teddy-teddy-bear-association-ill-562960/) With passing years I started changing. My fur grew rough. My ear tore a little. One of my eyes became loose. Still she kept me with her, but not with such frequency as before. New toys followed, and dolls with hairy heads and mouths that talked. But when she was alone she came back to me. She had hoped that I knew she was not talking. Her siblings laughed at her on some occasions. They would tell you, "You are too old to be taking teddy bear up and down! And she would wrap me round and protect me. Well, he is not a teddy, she would say. "He is my best friend." I felt proud at that point in time as I was aware that I was something special to her. But then, she grew older. School was more difficult, friends were more on the go and she did not carry me everywhere. I lingered generally on her bed. Occasionally I was pushed under the pillow, sometimes in the corner of the room. The dust had settled on me, and I could make out it was my end. I was glad, nevertheless, that I had shared her childhood. One day, she found me again. Now she was taller and her voice was deeper and her eyes were more acute. She picked me up and smiled. This teddy has been my baby, said she. I had weak stitches, but she cleaned me, nevertheless. Momentarily I was a little boy. That day I understood that she still remembered about me and what I meant to her, although she no longer needed me as before. Now I sit there in a little box underneath her bed. Other times the box is opened and she pats me. She no longer plays with me, but when she looks up at me I can see in her eyes the little girl she used to be. I know I am no longer her toy, but I am her memory. In my weary flesh I bear her childhood. Through her, I will probably never speak, walk, or move, but I have lived a full life through her. My private existence is plain: I was not only a teddy bear. I was a friend, a comforter and a secret keeper. I was her story, and she may not remember me later, but the world will.