Climbing through the depression, trying to tap away at my work in progress:
The store is a
clutch of cutesy accessories of all stripes: shoes, jewelry, mugs, knickknacks that
would take only one swipe of Po’s paw to break.
Then there is the
doll.
Somehow I find it
in my hands and I’m not letting it go. It’s not that it looks a little like Jax’s
beloved Mr. Bear; it’s exactly the same. I don’t know how that’s
possible. Mr. Bear came from some uncle or cousin and if it had made its way
from Red Stella, I didn’t know about it. Yet here he is, soft again, young,
untrammeled. Jax Velveteen Rabbit-ed the shit out of that bear. Eventually it
lost an eye, an ear, found its arm permanently raised from Jax’s brutal grasp.
He never really
got over Mr. Bear. He just grew a little more embarrassed, as kids do once they
begin to grow up. They don’t want their youthful loves in evidence, but they do
want them at the ready. Disloyal? Unfaithful? Certainly. The truth? You bet.
I wanted to bury him
with Mr. Bear. Rob said that was morbid. Sweetheart, I’ll give you morbid: burying
your teenage son to begin with. All the rest is sour, tangy icing.
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