I have two stuffed bears. I hug and kiss them goodnight, every night. I cover them with my baby blanket and make sure they’re comfortable.
The bear named Lib has been with me since I was one or two years old. He’s called Lib because that’s Bill backward. My dad was Bill.
I sometimes ask Lib if he can believe that he and I are almost fifty years old. He doesn’t say anything, probably because he can’t believe it, or because he’s a stuffed animal.
The other bear is called Bear Dog. I got him as a gift for my dad when he had some sort of surgery back in the 90s. My mom thought he was a dog, so I gave him the name Bear Dog.
I think Bear Dog had magic that protected my dad. I can’t prove that was the case, but I really do believe it.
I might be slightly insane, but part of me believes that the bears are sentient beings. I would like to someday stop tucking them in at night, but I worry that it would make them sad.
I’m still the little girl who believes her dolls and stuffed animals might come to life if she prays hard enough, of wishes on a star.