The Little White Bear

It is astounding how the trivial can ascend to the treasured with the tic of a heartbeat. How the things we hold dear are inspired by the moments we hold dear. How the people we hold dear are memorialized by the emotion following. One such thing I believe to fit within this ideal would be a small white bear. I have no recollection of the origin of this bear, nor any idea how it has maintained its figure through years of torment. It was originally a small white bear, sitting with its arms open, and adorned with a red bow under tiny black eyes. The toy stood at about an inch tall if not less. Its bow is now mangled and the color darkened. I can look at that thing and have a million thoughts rush through my head. It was given to me by my grandmother. 

When I was but a wee lad she had always called me Koda Bear. I always assumed it had to do with her love for Native American and Alaskan culture and the intrigue of the Kodiak bear. My parents were always away at work so I would stay with her and my grandfather. My grandfather was diagnosed with Alzheimer's three years before I was born so I never really knew him as well as I'd have liked. I remember growing up with Elvis and John Wayne. I remember eating mayonnaise and scrambled egg sandwiches for breakfast and mayonnaise and jelly sandwiches for lunch (we liked mayonnaise). I remember outliving some of the best dogs I've ever known, including Sasha, the collie that taught me how to walk. I remember the long car rides in the back of my grandpa's Ford Ranger that would one day be my first car. I remember the long walks through the woods looking for foxes and wolves because I thought I could tame them. I remember riding circles around that house on an ATV for hours on end. I remember drinking coffee with them while watching the Andy Griffith show. I remember her massive collection of barbies and other assorted action figures. I remember grandpa telling me scary stories while I laid between them in the waterbed. 

I remember when we had to sell the house after grandpa died because grandma couldn't handle him being gone. I remember when my grandma had to remove a breast because of cancer. I remember her bucket list containing two things: see Mount Rushmore, ride a cowboy. I remember the long drives to Warrensburg to see her at my aunt's house. I remember how much she hated the fighting that went on between my father and his sisters. I remember sitting across from her crying when I got dumped by the girl who took my virginity. I remember my grandma leaving me a voicemail telling me how worthy I was to be loved and how much she loved me. I remember how stupid I felt when I deleted it. I remember when she got to where she couldn't walk. I remember when I sat beside her on her deathbed, refusing to let her see me cry. I remember sitting on the bench outside of my aunt's house and crying for longer than I ever have before. I remember the screaming and the hate that filled my veins when she died. I remember all the nights I cried myself to sleep because I knew I could never hear her comfort me again. I remember all the people I pushed away because I couldn't handle being happy when she wasn't here anymore. I remember being the only person to be uplifting at the funeral. I remember giving a speech about the time she accidentally flipped a lawnmower because she was stubborn like that. 

I remember a lot about my grandmother. She practically raised me and incited all of her morals and beliefs upon me. She was the kind of woman that you loved no matter how crazy she could be. She was the kind of lady who loved everyone and saw the good in everyone, no matter how minuscule it may be. She was the best person I've ever known and I can't help but keep as much of her with me as possible. I have a lifetime of memories about my grandmother and every damn one of them slaps me in the face every time I hold that broken little bear, and I can't let it go.