Ode to Edward Tedward

My grandpa took on a search

for the perfect bear when I

was born.

It had to be perfect

enough not to hurt me;

but to absorb my problems

instead of causing any.

He found you, Eddy Teddy.

I chewed off your threaded eyes

with my teeth and now

you can’t see yourself

the way I see you.

Your right arm is yellow.

Your left arm is green.

On the right side of your body

from your neck to your ankle

is red.

On your left, neck to ankle

is blue.

A candy-cane stripe

is sewn down the middle

splitting the colors.

There’s not enough stuffing,

but it makes you softer to hug.

I added a white lace bowtie,

but it's not white anymore.

There are mascaras streaks

on your paws and face

stained from the times

you wiped away my inky

tears.

But at least you can’t see

how blackened your paws became

over the years

of me crying into them.

At least you can’t see how

your color has faded

how your cotton unraveled

exposing your fluffing.

Your insides, your core;

each a silver lining

held my whispers, cries,

and hateful words.

There will never be enough

thank yous

for being my crutch.

There will never be enough

thank yous

for being there,

and for not falling

apart.

It’s my turn to take care

of you since you're too fragile

to hold anymore.

So, from now on,

you'll sit on a pillow

in front of my favorite

books, next to a box

of tissues.