by AJ Winters III

Created on: July 13, 2008

I'm not sure when we met for the first time. I must have still been in the nursery, swaddled in receiving blankets, eyes barely open. My parents say I took to him right away, grasping his fingers in my tiny fist whenever he was near, often curling up against his chest for a brief nap. His quiet presence was perfect for bonding permanently with an infant such as myself.

As I grew, Mr. B never seemed to change. As I lengthened into a young woman, his stature remained short and squarish; he never seemed to need a haircut even as my own hair changed styles daily.

Through elementary and middle schools, Mr. B spent many nights sitting on my bed, leaning back against the mound of pillows, patiently absorbing all the trials and tribulations of being a girl, an only child, and then a big sister. The friendship we shared was only made stronger for his refusal to offer opinions and advice; his silence proved he knew better than to tell a stubborn child what she already knew but didn't want to hear.

His patience stood the tests of high school, a time when we may not have connected for days, weeks, or months at a time. I'm sure he thought I didn't care the way I had before friends and sleepovers, but the opposite was true. I admired him for his ability to be available for anyone in need, young or old, and his talent for always appearing on a moment's notice when I needed to talk.

Even now, almost 25 years after our first meeting, Mr. B's perpetual smile remains in place, albeit a little loose in the jowls from years of use. His haircut has stayed essentially the same, save for a few bald patches here and there, and tufts of brown fur sprouting from his ears and chest as if a toddler had grabbed handfuls of it and swung him carelessly about.

His once sparkling, glassy eyes have dimmed and clouded with age, and he smells more of moth balls and doctors' offices than of Grandma's kitchen and clean laundry. His old clothes are tattered, torn at the seams, but the look lends more of a comforting air to his soft person than one of disarray or dilapidation.

We sit around some evenings, with Mr. B upstairs sleeping in my bed, telling tales of the times he traveled, and the times he was left at home. My mother still talks of the time he spent an entire weekend in the hospital, watching over my father, at just a simple request from me. My father smiles at the memory, and reminds Mom of how just a year or two ago, Mr. B slept by her side for a week when Dad couldn't be with her after surgery.

We laugh at the stories, and I go upstairs to hug the subject of our conversation, never once feeling strange that my teddy bear is still my best friend.

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