19th April 2012 Thursday
The last remaining contents of my father’s room are piled up in the outdoor studio at my sister’s farm. My turn to go through them before they go to charity. I feel unsettled seeing it all again - his clothes in suitcases, his nail scissors, his glasses. I take a few books of poetry, his dictionary, the Oxford Book of Quotations - well thumbed. I don’t want anything else.
Except a tiny teddy bear, three inches tall, seated, with brown glass eyes and a narrow red ribbon round its neck. It was a gift to him from my mother on his 21st birthday. I’ve known him all my life - this bear. Even as a child I knew he was precious to my parents - being so long lived and long loved - somehow deserving of respect.
Now he is sitting on my desk next to a black and white photo of my mother. I’m just being his guardian, keeping an eye on him till it’s time for him to go to another generation - a great-grandchild maybe. I notice he has one little arm slightly raised in the air as if in permanent salute. Or waving goodbye.
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