To Favorite Stuffed Animals, especially Winnie the Pooh

I thought he was real; I thought I could wish so hard I would make him real, some 1973 Dallas version of the Velveteen Rabbit, only my Pooh wore diapers, liked Captain and Tenille and drank Dr. Pepper. He was my best friend.

Pooh on the left is now 46 years old. Keith call it "Chernobyl Pooh." He doesn't understand.

I left him twice in my life. Once at a restaurant I remember being in Lubbock, which is weird because we never drove west. I remember it being a steak joint with one of those “Eat this steak, fries and salad in an hour and you don’t have to pay” gimmicks. I remember the baked potato tasting more like tin foil than potato. I remember the copper colored plastic glasses. The booth we sat in. I remember we had lunch but it was dark inside. I remember getting in the car and driving again, though I don’t remember where. I forgot Pooh in booth. I didn’t remember until we were far away.

How old is old enough to know true heartbreak? Perhaps the waitress had a child like me and by the looks of it, no one else in the world would want or even consider this bear. She picks it up and tucks it next to her purse in the backroom. Hours later, my mom calls. The waitress says, yes, she has it. She mails it back parcel post. I fear he has died, smothered in the box. He’s fine.

The next time I left him, I was convinced, now that I was in middle school, that I did not *need* him. I could read by myself, go to sleep on my own. My younger sister and I were staying with my grandmother 10 hours away for a week. Long distance calls cost a lot of money back then so my grandmother would sneak us into the Mack Truck dealership where she worked and would let us use the WATS line to call home. I don’t know if I said it or if Gamaw did, but a few days later, Pooh arrived, again wrapped tightly in a box. The note, in my mom’s handwriting, said, “I just flew in from Dallas. Boy, are my arms tired.” He was ok. I was ok. Now I was.

I never left him again. High school, college, grad school, move after move after move. Maybe just sitting on a shelf or tucked in a corner. He’s still there.

After Rainer died, I admit to holding the bear. I admit to not knowing how old I really was. I admit I could do little else. Wait. Try to make the imaginary real. Surely, surely I can make this happen.