Teddy Tales

I walk into my room, suitcases in hand. I think I expect the scent of oak polish rather than actually smelling it. I glance around and involuntarily, I feel the corners of my lips tilting upwards, the cream curtains, the dark red walls, the four-poster bed; everything is the same.

I drop the bags and take a turn of the room; looking for him.

I feel the muscles in my face widening as I pick my little teddy up. Everything is the same.

I examine him inch to inch, from his little half moon ears, to his warm beaded brown eyes, to his silly smile stitched onto one side of his face and his rounded feet and hands. Everything is the same.

I set him down, and my eye catches a stray strand of thread. Tugging at it, the thread gives way and a seam slashes open. A single lock of the cotton polyester filling catches the breeze and floats out. It is no more than a millimeter or two wide. Landing stark on my red bedding.

Everything is different.

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