My Oldest Friend

I'd like to introduce you to someone. His name is Steve. He was a Christmas gift from my Gannyma when I was four years old. Probably an inexpensive card shop special, he's small and plain in appearance with shabby brown fur. But he's very special. As a kid, Steve and I were inseparable. We've been through a lot together. He's had more adventures than any other teddy bear I can think of. Steve has been to over ten states, accompanied me on every trip I've ever been on, and has also been counted for lost a few times before making a seemingly miraculous reappearance.
Many years ago I left him in a restaurant, and I'll never forget the image of our waiter running across the parking lot to our car, waving frantically, Steve in hand. Once I left him at K-Mart, and when my mother phoned the store to track him down, the employee who answered said, "you talkin bout a ratty ol' brown bear?" I was offended and hoped Steve was not in the presence of these harsh words. Yet another time I left him at my Granny's house in Virginia, and did not know until we'd arrived home. I felt terrible. Granny found him under the sofa and, knowing the value of his presence, shipped him home to us. One day my sister Kelley got mad at me and decided to hide Steve. She knew this would upset me. She hid him outside in our charcoal grill, where she knew I'd never find him. This prank would have been harmless except that, when it came time to fess up, she forgot where she'd hidden him. Five or six months went by. I had wept for my beloved Steve, but had accepted that he was gone. Dad went out to light the grill for some hamburgers one spring day and there was Steve, dusty and cold but still the same. At church the boys used to tease me for having him, and would play keep away with Steve, sometimes until I cried. He's been through a lot; I'd even venture to call him lucky.

I may no longer be a child, but my affection for Steve has only increased. About a year ago I thought he'd gotten thrown away by freakish mistake, and I tearfully awoke all the members of the house in a frantic search, even going through the trash. I found him eventually--under my pillow, where I had not bothered to look. Last year I took my first distant solo trip to Charleston, and he rode shotgun with me all the way.

Steve has changed with age: once his nose was black and velvet, but over the years the white plastic underneath was revealed until it was all that remained. His beady black eyes are scratched, some of his seams show where the fur is worn, and he still smells slightly of PineSol from when my mother bathed him in it after I'd been sick. He also used to have a Christmas jacket, but that has long since been lost.

Most everyone who knows me knows about Steve. He has been a part of my life since I can remember. He's not just property to me; I see him as a creature with a soul. Perhaps that makes me eccentric (but then, there's lots that makes me eccentric). He is a symbol of comfort, peace, and nostalgia for me. Steve still sits at the head of my bed. Perhaps someday I'll give him to a daughter or son, but for now, that's where he'll stay.