I dreamt of the blue bear last night. At least I think it was a dream. Tossing and turning under the pain of my leg and the weight of the compression ice pack, I wasn’t sure if I was dreaming or awake.

I was in the hospital again. Ryan was sleeping. The IV machine was beeping its usual cadence. A slice of neon light from the hallway slipped under the door. I clutched the blue bear on my couch bed, hiding under my blanket, and wept.

I wept. And wept. And wept. Were those today’s tears or streaks from all those years ago? I’m not sure.

The blue bear silently absorbed them all and snuggled closer to me. He was not a fancy bear. Not furry or dressed adorably. He was soft, like terry cloth. Maybe a small-looped terry cloth. I can’t remember his eyes. Kind. Just kind. Stitched with black thread but no buttons. His nose and mouth are the same. Simple.

Maybe that’s why Ryan was willing to give him up. He had so many other toys loving folks had brought to bring him whatever fleeting moments of joy a child can find in a cancer ward. The alligator was his favorite. The blue bear was mine.

The bear was the tangible receptacle of all the tears that managed to stay hidden during daylight hours. Once the lights were out, my final pleading prayer complete, I slid under my blanket and my tears slid down my checks. A quiet stream, mostly. Steady and long, occasionally punctuated by a sob that refused to be restrained. So many nights weeping in the dark.

Our lives melt away into memories like watercolors with no distinct boundaries. I took the blue bear out of his protective wrapping in the cedar chest, tied a ribbon ‘round his neck (so unnecessary) and left him with a note on her porch. She would need to know his job. I hesitated. What if I needed him again?

I turned away before I could change my mind or she could see me. Her divorce and custody battle had been bruising and brutal. Maybe she needed him more than I. The bear began another chapter.

I heard later the bear had moved again. A single heartbeat turned a woman with four young children into a widow who would blame herself for years for not preventing the impossible. Through the anger and the ache and the never-ending nights, the bear was there. Like she, perhaps he hit the wall a few times. Sometimes grief is violent. They both must have been made of strong stuffing.

And then the bear moved again, this time once again to the arms of a child. Killed by his own hand and his own heartache, daddy would not be coming home again. Why? The blue bear could not say.

I saw the bear again last night. He was dirty with no sweetness in his smell. His sewn mouth was slightly askew. A paw was missing, leaving a trail of soiled stuffing oozing from the missing limb.

I hesitated. I did not want to pick him up. He was not clean or cuddly any more. My bear! My own sweet bear, what has happened to you?

The years and the tears spun backwards and I remembered. I took the smallest of steps towards the blue bear, reaching for him carefully. Gently, I wiped a smudge from his face. The loose stitching on his mouth quivered. Perhaps the tiniest of smiles?

I hugged him to my heart and slept.