Fifteen years ago, Beary lost his eyes.
I can’t remember how they used to look.
My mom stitched him a new one,
torn off a tiger toy I never liked.
A banal hue of brown paints his textured fur.
I was eleven when I found out it was cotton.
Nowadays he’s spotted by gray balls of dust,
that turns his skin into a withering beard.
In pictures, he used to have a jacket and a bowtie.
I imagine that as he got more comfortable
and as the weather got warmer,
I decided he would lose the layers.
Before she died, Chai never bit him.
She understood that he was
more than a stuffed bear.
She saw my life etched into his hide.
Tonight, like most nights,
he’s by my side,
wrapped in blue sheets,
clutched to my chest.
His tiger eyes glow in the
dim reflection of my lamp.
In them, I see myself,
then him, then myself again.