It's my story to tell

I was four years old when my mom told me the story of a goat she had. Adventures of a premie who lived in a tote at the foot of her bed because she was born in too cold of a month. My mom named her Lisa.

The goat was an adventurous creature, getting into mischief and wreaking havoc on my mom's sister. She ran behind mom, a piece of paper from my aunts school book in her mouth and my mom chastised her sister for chasing poor Lisa.

It was always my favorite story. When I asked my mom about where she was now, I was taught about death but more importantly life. How life can continue through words and through our memories. Tears welled in my eyes but my mom just shook her head at me and told me to pick out a special stuffed animal of mine. There wasn’t much of a question which one I chose, even though it may have been the plainest stuff bear in existence.

At the time, she was a chocolate brown bear, with a dark gold ribbon tied around her neck. Black glass eyes that sink behind a similarly dark gold muzzle. My dad said he was sure he got it for me when I was a baby, but that part of her history is unclear.

I raced back to my mom, who rested on the couch, after watching such an energetic child all day, I’m sure she was exhausted. Mom looked at the teddy bear and nodded at me. She told me to name the bear Lisa, that way the goat and her memory could live on, past death. I agreed and became attached to the bear immediately.

Years of attachment can wear down the best of us, Lisa was no different. A ripped arm and ear sewed up by a family friend. A nose torn off and replaced with super glue. Her dark gold ribbon, chewed and torn by goats that I was able to call my own. Always sharing with them the Story of Lisa, as I slept in their pens with the bear tucked under my arm in front of an electric heater on winter nights. But she is still a close companion. She sits over my head board like a guardian angel. She has seen things no one else but myself has witnessed. The universe is lucky that only her and I share those memories.

He and I were alone. My knees were probably scraped from an adventure up a tree. My hair was probably still long, this was before the putty incident. This was before I became afraid of the boys who looked at me. I wanted to play little mermaid. He had a different plan.

I know I screamed or cried. I know because when I did he reminded me no one was there. His mom had left him to care for me. No one told her wolves and little girls shouldn’t be in the same cottage.

I cried out and he took my only safety net, the chocolate brown bear with glass eyes.He found his mother's sewing kit. The thing that was used to repair Lisa’s arm and ears in the past now penetrated where her ear drums would be. I learned that the things that can piece you together can rip you apart just as easy. He told me that even she couldn’t hear me now.

I don’t remember getting out of there. But I did. We did. I see pieces of memories like they are worn tape from an old movie player.

I felt like my life was over before it began. After becoming something broken with bits and pieces of memories. I felt dead. But the lesson rings true from the day the bear with the dark gold ribbon got her name. Life continues with words. And this is the way my life and story will continue.