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Sparkle (0)
I used to throw him up in the air, making him smack on the cottage cheese ceiling hard enough that a fine dusk would sprinkle down. I thought that he was real, and that if I jarred him enough, he would stop the charade and his glass eyes would come to life, his little nose would moisten and suck in a breath, and his furry little body would warm with the blood that I was convinced flowed through him. I was always disappointed when it didn't work. When he'd just lay there as before, a raggedy stuffed teddy bear, and nothing more.
I had a small yellow blanket, knit by my grandmother for an older cousin who had since outgrown its charms, which I held in the same hand whose thumb I enthusiastically sucked. I'd press the blanket up to my nose with my free fingers and inhale the blankets wondrous smells (I've always had an obsession/fascination with smells).
This blanket, along with the aforementioned teddy bear, were my constant companions until I, like my cousin before me, was old enough to be embarrassed of such things. They kept me occupied; one comforting me with its softness and olfactory delights, and the other, my best friend, clutched to my body while I'd quietly observe the chaos that surrounded me...a chaos that only the youngest child in a large family truly comprehends.
At night, tucked into bed and tranquilized by the sounds of life that was still being led by the older occupants of my family outside my bedroom door, I'd talk to my companions. I didn't need to talk aloud to them, and aside from an occasional whisper when the thoughts in my head got too overwhelming and I'd accidentally blurt something out, surprising even myself, all our discussions took place in my head. An insomniac from the beginning, they were my accomplices in whatever fantastic story my little imagination created.
They're tucked away on a shelf in my closet now, the teddy bear propped on the carefully folded blanket. Once in a while I'll take them down, usually when I'm moving and have to unceremoniously stick them in a cardboard box for transport. The bear feels so small and light now, so obviously made of cotton and filling and nothing else. His glass eyes still stare at me though, and I can still see the creature that I once saw in him. The blanket smells dusty and old, badly in need of a run through the washing machine. I'll pull a corner through my hand, folding it over the back of my hand like I did over two decades ago. The feeling comforts me still.
“Real isn’t how you are made,” said the Skin Horse. “It’s a thing that happens to you. When a child loves you for a long, long time, not just to play with, but REALLY loves you, then you become Real.”
“Does it hurt?” asked the Rabbit.
“Sometimes,” said the Skin Horse, for he was always truthful. “When you are Real you don’t mind being hurt.”
-The Velveteen Rabbit
