My Life, My Bears

Today is Mr. Bear's birthday. He came to me on my birthday forty-six years ago, a gift from my husband, Richard. For forty-six years, Mr. Bear sat on a bench in our bedroom, facing the bed. At one end of the bench was a decorative platter, propped on its edge. At the other end, good old Mr. Bear.

Several years after Mr. Bear came to our house, we found him a mate, sort of. Miss Polar Bear entered our lives twenty-some years ago. And every night since then, she and Mr. Bear have sat nestled at the end of a bench in our bedroom. On the bed during the day, and on the bench at night.

They make a cute couple, those bears. And they have an interesting history. Richard found Mr. Bear in an upscale college store in Harvard Square, and we discovered Miss Polar Bear in a Florida thrift store. (We'd flown down to visit Richard's mother, and thought we'd make the trip easier by shipping our luggage ahead of time. But the luggage wasn't there when we were, so – thrift store.)

Anyway, every year on my birthday, Richard waited until I was downstairs before setting both bears on the bed with a “Happy Birthday” note in front of them. “Happy Birthday” was accompanied by a different message each year. Things like “We luv you, Mommy.”

This year there will be no message. No bears on the bed. But we're going to have a birthday party, the bears and me. A box of crackers, a bottle of wine (red, probably), and my “family,” at Richard's gravesite. I might even write a cute message to Richard from the bears and me, and prop it against his headstone.