When I was little, I had a stuffed monkey. He wasn’t anything particularly pretty, like the fancy sock monkeys, but to me, he was special, and I loved him, nonetheless. I am no longer in possession of that little monkey, but I remember him in detail: he was made of soft cotton, small in stature, gray colored with button eyes, wore a smile, and had a thin, long tail. Much like the story of the velveteen rabbit, he was worn thread bare from excessive love and handling, and he slept with me each and every night. Unfortunately, I don’t remember when he disappeared, what became of him, or what he was called, but the memory of him is still very much alive.

One summer, my family and I went on a trip to the mountains. At five years of age, because it didn’t happen very often, I thought staying in a motel was the stuff from which dreams were made – enjoyed by only a few moderately rich people (even though we were more than moderately non-rich). I remember waking up bright and early the first morning during our stay, eager for a day of sightseeing in Maggie Valley, North Carolina. Once my family was ready, I wanted to leave my monkey on the bed, but my mother quickly shunned the idea, saying he could become tangled up in the bed covers and accidentally taken away by the maid; instead, she hid him behind the luggage. When we returned to our room later that day, we found the newly cleaned room and bed waiting for us, with none other than my esteemed, loved monkey sitting front and center against the plumped-up pillows. It was only years later I learned my mother had been embarrassed by the worn, tattered (and likely dirty) monkey and had sought to hide him from the cleaning staff. The maid, however, being the diligent individual she was, had found him, choosing instead to leave him in an honored position, situated in the center of the bed – much to my mother’s mortification.

When my children were young, I often read “The Velveteen Rabbit” to them. Each time I read that story, I was reminded of my beloved monkey. It may be pure, whimsical folly to think it, but I so hope my sweet little, stuffed monkey was so well-loved that he, too, became real, and to this day, he enjoys a full life in some far away, enchanted land filled with plants, fruits. Wherever he is, I am sure he has an abundance of monkey friends and is loved by all.

wuzzy

small cheap stuffed shoe-button bear

gifted by an aunt to celebrate my birth

my first awareness

a soft brown being

as I grew larger

he grew smaller

I'd hold him tight to me at night

he always fit in my arms just right

wuzzy never blamed me when my parents fist swung fighting

my dad stomping out slamming screaming cursing yelling shit

wuzzy never smacked me when breakfast spilt on school shirts

making mommy make me pay beat me silly slap into clean ones

so long ago yet the sound still tense my stomach fist clenching

reaching out to wuzzy who took it all in with his stupid smile

wuzzy absorbed it all

soaked up tons of quiet quivering tears

his coat became chunky knobby nubby

mommy tossed him into the laundromat

he didn't make it

my first constant beloved comforter pal

a useless clump of felted mass wad waste

I looked in the big drum

we never found his eyes

my first Toy

was a lively thing

until it wasn't...

don't know if,

it ran out of charge

or, the remote had

just stopped working?

it used to come running

whenever I hollered

half or whole

it used to coo and awe

at random moments,

rolling over, touching toes

it took turns rocking

me to sleep

on various days

of the week

it made me treats

on waking, and fed me

piece...

in creamy spoonfuls,

until milkened honey

was thinly replaced

by formula...

new and old school

miscalculations

stiff parallel talks

in bus or car and

big kid toys...

but I still recall

holding on

loosely

across the too busy street

and the way it waved

from the far side

suddenly

smaller than me

04.05.24

"What was Your first toy?" challenge @AJAY9979

What was my first toy?

You'll ask a question. I can't answer.

"My memory is pretty bad, but I remember my childhood favorite," I say, nervous you may not like me already.

"Sure, why not?" I can already tell you're annoyed.

Now, what did I do? Did I make this harder for myself? Do I pick the Elephant or the Cat? The Elephant has a story, but I forgot a lot of it. And does the Cat even count as a childhood toy? I got her when I was in high school.

"I had a stuffed toy elephant I always slept with." I look up, finally looking at you.

"Oh really? What was its name?"

I hesitate. I missed it. "Um... I called it Ellie sometimes... and Sugar sometimes..." I say.

"Well, that's... why two names?" you ask. I can't answer.

"I don't know, I was a kid," I say.

"You don't know?" you say. I feel defeated by the simple question already.

"I don't know," I repeat back.

"Oh, okay. Well, mine was a teddy bear I'd always sleep with. I called him Bobo, and I used to take him everywhere I went and always accidentally got him dirty. This one time, I took him out to recess, and my mom was furious when I came home all muddy and had to wash the teddy cause I was crying about how Bobo was all muddy cause he was a white teddy bear." you say. But you don't stop there. You keep talking, and talking, and talking, and talking, and —

I smile, listening. This isn’t so bad.

Brown, slightly lumpy

My oldest friend

With one leg longer than the other

My aunt sewed her

And presented my bear to me

On the day I was born

(Or so my mother told me)

Her musty fur is soft

And has been soaked with many tears

Breakups, disappointments, sadness

Fearful tears when my parents shouted

Her round ears hold all my secrets

All my confessions

All my pride and shame

And yet, I have never disappointed her

That curved smile is always there

Sewed onto her kind brown face

Rain, hail, shine

Whether I squeeze her in a fierce hug

Or throw her against the wall

Her steady eyes always stare

With love and understanding

One day, my brother tore off her arm

He laughed and pretended

Her arm was a poop

I cried and screamed at him

He couldn't understand what he'd done

How he'd hurt her

How that hurt me

But my teddy understood

She sat quietly as I threaded the needle

And sewed her back together

Her arm was never the same

Pinned to her side with jagged black stitches

No longer able to rotate

But she never complained

Her smile never waivered

Her eyes held no recrimination

When I went overseas, I stored her

Packed into a cardboard box

No room in my backpack for my oldest friend

And she's waiting still

I hadn't thought of her in months

And now my arms itch

To draw her into a fierce embrace

To once again soak that fur with my tears

To feel that rare feeling

The one friend who I will never disappoint

Who will never think I have let them down

No matter how long they have waited

Crammed in a dark cardboard box

Starved for air and light

I know that when I pull her out

Her smile will be just as bright

Her eyes just as understanding

So blessed am I

To have an aunt who sewed

Her love into a teddy bear

A bear for no-one else but me

A teddy bear, I guess. A big one, bigger than me actually, with thin and coarse brown fur. Not fluffy at all. It always felt cold. I didn't hug him very often. I was more content with having him sitting in a corner, strong and quiet, guarding me at night. I gave him one of my nicer toy cars once to appease any feeling of being used. I was afraid I'd lose my only friend. Go figure.

A golden retriever stuffed animal I named Goldie (how creative of me). I think he was a boy, it was so long ago I can't remember.

I loved Goldie, and I would have held onto him forever (even if it could have been unhealthy). He accidentally got put into a donation bag, and my mom either wouldn't let me open the bag or the bag was already gone (probably the latter, but my child brain was so mad at her at the time that I probably villainized her a bit).

I'm still bitter at how we parted. I miss Goldie.

I can remember the day I received a precious gift of fear. A fear unknown to the child's mind inside of me, a tingling sensation of goosebumps running down my arms to my feet. The darkness of a Saturday night devoured my room as I sat in the loneliness of the darkness. My heart started pounding, faster than I had experienced running the little marathon at school. My scream held itself captive inside my lungs as the fast breaths I was taking guarded any sound from escaping. Tears rolled down my cheeks, landing on my chin, and finally dripping onto my knees, forming wet drops on my shorts. It was a hot summer, the heat of the sun that had gone down a few hours ago still lingering on the sides of my room, making it hard not to sweat. Or was it the fear that caused those little drops of sweat to refuse to mix with the tears on my shorts?

With the eyes of a child, the arrogance that kept me alive that night, the bet I had made my biggest regret, never to be weak, never to be scared, the self-taught bravery that I smeared all over my expressions, I gazed into the red-like screen as Chucky pulled one of his knives and presented it to his victims with a heavy grin on his face. The next scene of the knife was a bloody terror shown through the filter of his victims eyes. The shock prevented my eyes from looking away, suddenly consciousness logged out and I went to sleep, promising myself in a calming manner to never be brave again.

I can remember the day I received a precious gift of fear, my cousin with a smile on his face handed me the Chucky toy, the bearer of the killer's soul.

In my own recollection, my first and last stuffie, was Lurky. Now, if you have no point of reference, no worries. I also seldom watched Rainbow Brite. But I loved my Lurky. He must have come into my life on my fourth birthday. I see the original issue is 1983 and my parents never moved that fast. But someone had an inkling... about me and Lurky.

Lurky was special. One look at that mug above and you see what I mean. SO much to Love!! The antenna, the boogly eyes, the hair tuffs, the schnoz, the great big open arms, and the sneakers with lighting bolts, just cemented itself to myselfhood from toddler to teen years. If I was going on an overnight, that was the only thing I really need to bring, aside from jammies, pen and notepaper, and toothpaste.

At some point of crisis, I left Lurky at home. Safe.

By then I understood the meaning of the word. Lurk. The irony and how it weighs in on life experience and its lingering impressions. The boogiemen we had faced, the dark, the alone. When I walked out, traveling light, knowing I'd never be back, I left him on the bed with one final hug and kiss. If I ever returned, I'd be older. To the household, I'd be a stranger. But not to Lurky.

Sometimes I think, he's still watching over me.