“If you were my teddybear, I’d dress you in red shoes everyday.”
I’d never really had a teddybear as a kid, and by the time I’d acquired one I was a freshman in high school. I still have it, its glossy brown eyes gazing blankly at the ceiling from its position on the floor, half clothed in the twisting whirlpools of worn jeans and cardigans that coated the hardwood floor. It was a Valentine’s Day present actually, just not from any boy at school. But my teddybear, he got the short end of the stick. I never really interacted with him, never gave him the time of day. I tried to have affection for his soft frame, but I could never even fake mild concern over his disappearance. The good thing about teddybears is that they’re small and portable. You can take them anywhere and they’re always there for you. But my teddybear, he was never so lucky. I never took him anywhere. I never tried to dress him up in outfits and admire his good looks and soft curls. I guess I never really showed him the affection he deserved. He was always just there, overlooking my life from about an inch out of my frame of vision. The next good thing is that you can pretend they love you unconditionally. My teddybear loved me like I was his own, despite the lack of attention I paid him. I would toss him off the bed in a rush or leave him on his own in a fit but he’d always come back to me. But then I grew up. I tucked him into the basket of all of my other rejected toys and turned around for a more mature lifestyle. I imagine he must have gotten mad at me for it, bitter or hurt, but he never once said a word and merely looked on tirelessly as I tried to reformat my personality over and over again. Another thing about teddybears is that they don’t really get mad at you for hugging them, and they let you sob those big crocodile tears all over their shoulders. I’m sure he was upset over all the words I didn’t say; mad about all the attention I never gave him, but my teddybear never fought me on it. He never yelled or raised a hand. He just held on tight and let my tears roll and did his best to be there for me, even though he’d never understand. The thing about teddybears is that they can’t really feel anything. Everything I’d ever told him he couldn’t comprehend, he couldn’t feel. It was his job to stand there and just take it with the hope that his very presence would comfort me. I clutched onto him for life, but he could never understand, I cried into his chest, but he could never get it. See, the thing about teddybears is they can’t really talk back. Even if they could, they’d never say all of the things you wanted so desperately to hear. They’d never promise you that everything would turn out be alright, or tell you that it was okay to be human. They’d never want to be dressed up in some ridiculous outfit much less be some kind of washcloth to mop up your liquid heartbreak. The worst thing about teddybears is that they can’t really love you back. No amount of persuasion can make them stay with you, no amount of crying can make them feel for you. No amount of words will make them listen, and no amount of kindness will make them care for you. No amount of hearts or flowers or sugar-coated candies could ever make them love you like you love them. Or like you should have loved them.
“If you were my teddybear I’d take you everywhere with me.” Baby words spoken off a childish tongue. “And if you were my teddybear I’d dress you in red shoes everyday.” I’d smile and gaze down into those hazy arctic blue eyes that I’d never quite learned to appreciate, and maybe, just maybe, for a split second they’d gaze back.