Plaid Black and Navy Bear

The fabric of my teddy bear is in plaid black and navy. It was given to me by my grandmother. She said that when she tested positive, she was upset she couldn't continue working on sewing the bears she had made for me and my siblings, but she was glad she could give them to us now. She came over with valentine's day cookies, and we watched the superbowl together, and the bears smelled like the detergent she uses; mild and soapy. Clean.

I cried over the bear that night, tears dripping and darkening the navy plaid fabric so painstakingly handsewn by someone I love.

The fabric of my father's favorite flannel was in plaid black and navy. It was given to him by his mother. It was warm and soft, and in the winter he would be washing it or wearing it, save for the formal occasion a practical navy flannel wasn't allowed. He wore it under coats and over undershirts, and it smelled like the products he used; dandruff shampoos and aftershave, and like the old books and new laptops he spent so much time around.

When his flannels and shirts were packed into a bag, my grandmother came over and told us to choose one each. Me and my siblings dug through the packed bag in silence, and I had to barter a beige flannel with my brother to get the one I wanted. His flannels smelled of laptops and dandruff shampoo when he left, and when grandma came back with her stuffed approximations of comfort, they smelled like musty soap and store-bought detergent.

I had forgotten about the bears before she gave it to me. A plaid-black and navy stuffed horror, an intention of comfort that won't ever smell of old books or aftershave again. Shiny button eyes that are supposed to see, but instead reflect the world back to me in two distorted black circles.

It sits on a chair in my room. Turned around to face the wall. Its little ears stick up from its head, and if anyone but me saw it, they might even say it was cute.

I cried over the bear last night. I held it close because he can't hug me back anymore, and its limp flannel arms stood laying at their sides like some kind of sick joke. A reminder and relic of something that was never supposed to happen in the first place.

My plaid black and navy bear smells like laundry detergent.