A Forgotten Teddy
A Forgotten Teddy
There, on a park bench alone, sat a lonely teddy bear. Drenched in rain upon a cold fall evening. Not a single soul in sight, but myself. And as I looked at it, I began to wonder, who it did belong to, why was it left? Did a child grow out its tender looks, was the mother in a hurry and they left it?
And as these thoughts progressed with a slight pinch of sadness, the bear began to remind me of myself. I too, often sit alone, cold, in the rain in silence. Hoping for the stars to fall from the sky and lift me. I think too, maybe this is who I am meant to be, a silent, solitary soul.
To only be loved for a momentary moment before being abandoned out of boredom or wear.
And as I approached the teddy bear, I began to see it was worn. Tattered, signs it was clearly loved at one point. Held through restful nights as a candle burns in farthest reaches of a room. Being a comfort in the dead sweats of nightmare. And I too, once held tight to something, clinging to it as if only one of it existed. But it fled from me, for it was not meant to be mine.
And as I looked at the teddy, knowing it was just a toy, I still could not help but feel sorry for it. Its eye hanging by a single thread, its fur worn thin in patches. Its arm ripped slightly at the shoulder, its color rubbed with dirt and other such things a child might drag such an item through.
Who knows the story behind this bear, but the bear itself? But it cannot speak, much like myself. I know I should express the scars that tear at my threads. I know I should open to the worn surfaces of my soul. But like the bear, my lips are sewn. I feel as if they do no exist, but to converse in the meaningless, or the attempt to dig deep into the meaning of all things.
An while I was thinking and standing alone huddled close to my own body. I grabbed the bear from the bench and began to examine it with greater detail. There were unique inflictions upon it, odd markings and unrecognizable splotches. There were even noticeable attempts to repair it.
Stitches of brown thread lined the middle of its stomach. You could see the eye that hung, had two different colors of string attached to it. Even the shoulder that was ripped had a red thread hanging from it. And as I looked it over with much curiosity, I found that though it be worn and abandoned, there was much design still to it.
Its functionally was still there, it could still be used to be held, cuddled, and loved. All it needed was some TLC and so, on that cold, rainy fall evening. I carried the bear home, sewed it up the best I could, dried it out and placed it upon shelf in a room I never use.
And now, when I walk by that room, a room which I always leave the door open. I see it, sitting there, alone once again. But in a new place, a better place. And as I look at it with each passing day. I see there is more who I am, than the threads that hang from me. There is something still beautiful, though I may be abandoned in this present time.
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Do you have scars you believe make you less of who you are?
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