Jean Diamond

He hasn’t seen the light of day for years, but I knew exactly where he was: at the bottom of a stack of out of season clothes in the headboard storage of my bed.  He isn’t soft or pretty.  According to his tag, he is 100% virgin wool.  My mom told me that he was originally pink, but to me he has always been a faded, yellowish tan.  At 63-years-old, he is still in pretty good shape, no holes, no fraying.  During his first years, he worked a lot—wrapped around me at night and my dolls (and the dog) during the day. 

I don’t think I took him to college, and I don’t remember packing him up when I left home for good. But here he is, so I must have.  He wasn’t used when my boys were babies; for one thing he didn’t seem soft enough to cradle them and, more importantly, he was mine. 

When I was 3, I wa seriously ill with an infection behind my eye. My main memory is of my Nana walking me down the hall to surgery, holding Binky and promising that they would be waiting for me.  Not too long after that, my mom gave me the choice of giving up my pacifier or Binky.  I was old enough to reason that I’d have to give up the pacifier at some point, but I could always keep Binky.  And I will.