Gabi Coatsworth

I was giving him a quick hug the other day, when I suddenly realized that Meesh qualifies for Medicare. His name is Polish for teddy bear. An old man now, he sits in the bedroom, looking dapper in the tuxedo and bow tie I found for him in a toy shop in Vermont twenty years ago. He has no fur left, to speak of. His glass eyes, doubtless choking hazards these days, were replaced long ago.

When I was a child, in England, my mother regularly sewed his arms and legs back on as they fell off one by one, after too much love from me. His newer palms and the soles of his feet—only fifty-years-old—reveal the neat stitches of her reconstructive surgery.
My Polish godmother gave him to me for my third birthday. A while ago, I sent a photo of him to her son, my first crush, now an old man himself. He lives in the Canadian prairies where he emigrated in the ‘60s. I told him how much I loved this gift from his mother so long ago.

Meesh has been my friend through all the ups, downs, joys, and sorrows of my life. He came to America with me when I emigrated, a reliable reminder of home and the power of loyalty.