The Bear That Stayed In the Past

It was the day that I walked up into my attic that I finally took time to remember my childhood. It was

a bear, hidden under a thick canvas cloth, that I had never really took the time to examine before, with my fear of any hidden parasites that may be lurking in the corners of the attic. However, as the spring break started I was determined to organize the attic, and decided to tackle the ‘lump’ as we called it. Unsheathing the cloth, I saw an old bear towering down on me, with a signature on it’s paw. “Gifted with love- from grandpa,” The message read. Though my mind was growing weary, and some of the memories with my grandfather had begun to blur, I suddenly started to picture scenes that were hidden deep within my brain.

I remember my childhood in bits and pieces, like framed pictures of specific events that existed on a shelf. There was the time I challenged my brother to a race down the steps of the rocky hill on the side of my grandfather’s house. My mother warned us to never run down the hill or we would injure ourselves – but that didn’t deter us at all. We waited for her to go to work and immediately started running around the sunny hills. What else was there to do in the hot summer sun but run, hide, play, and relish in the bright light. There was also the time I climbed the mango tree in my grandfather’s backyard and got stuck. So I snacked on mangoes and hoped someone would find me before my grandfather came home. The Australian sun was always more bearable in the shade of a tree and a cool breeze, but being stuck all day didn’t help. I ended up with a bright pink patch all over my arms and legs.

My grandfather hated when we climbed his mango tree. He sued to complain that we’d shake the fruit right out and that they’d burst and spoil when they fell on the ground. Though he was a man of few words, you could not help but stop whatever you were doing and listen when he spoke. I remember visiting my grandfather before he passed. I wanted so badly to believe my memories and hold on to that day as it was; I booked a flight and made the one thousand five hundred mile journey back to Australia to see him.

But the thing about memories is that the more you remember them, the less reliable they become. I started to imagine and picture things that didn’t really happen. My brother, who grew up in that house, does not remember a mango tree at all. No matter how much I described it. My grandfather however, had a faint memory of a tree in his garden which he knew bear fruit, but not mangoes. I never really knew whether my most cherished memory was real or not.

Then there was the night when I bought the bear. It was a rainy Christmas eve, and the hustle and bustle on the street seemed to have intensified, with parents rushing around to buy last minute gifts. I however, was safely covered in the snug blankets on my bed, bursting as I thought of tommorow. The next day, what stood before me was a bear, christined “ Big Bear,” Being able to touch and smell the bear again reminded me of how much I had missed home. It brought tears to my eyes that surprised me. I sat in silence for some time on some milk crates facing a window where you could see the courtyard, enjoying these memories and the mango tree that I could clearly visualise.