The story goes that my grandfather picked Winnie-Pooh for my crib before I was born. He has always been my favorite. He dutifully dried my tears on the bad days. His little stuffed body has molded itself to fit mine just so. His nose has been hot-glued back onto his face more times than I can count. His mouth was at one time a piece of similarly glued red felt, but was later replaced by Mom's red embroidery thread. Over the years he developed some gaping holes in his arms that I didn't know how to fix. It was a complicated job, and I couldn't bring myself to do it. In fact, even though I'm 31, it just doesn't feel right to have anyone but my Mom fix him up. But earlier this year I asked one of my bank customers, a little old lady named Jeanne who does alterations and is sort of a grandma to us, if she would tackle the job. She fixed him up for me. I don't sleep with Winnie-Pooh in my arms anymore, but he's still there when things get tough, and I know I'll never have the heart to put him away in a box. Winnie-Pooh represents silent consolation and unconditional love.
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