seshat's blog post - Barney

I don’t know how long he had been waiting, but I first saw him at the start of winter last year.
As the subway train rose above ground and the sides of the tunnel fell away, my eyes followed the familiar route: a tired but well kept office building, a few plots of communal gardens, a wall of psychedelic graffiti stretching some hundred yards and finally, a derelict terrain.
It was there that I noticed him, lying on his side, staring at me. The way he looked through me disconcerted me. But I presume that, in the end, all teddy bears have the same empty gaze.
The slight slope on which he rested was strewn with gravel, shards of glass and tile, broken bricks and tufts of withered weeds and grass. An eight foot fence surrounded this wasteland, although it was unclear who or what the enclosure was meant to keep out.

For several weeks I looked up from my book as I passed by him on my way to and from work. And each time, I wondered at the conundrum of how this forlorn bear had made its way onto the enclosed terrain; there seemed to be no open gate or break in the fence.
One day, the city decided to dress itself in white. When I went by him once again and a light dusting of snow blanketed every surface, I felt a sudden longing to be one of the snowflakes floating down to cover him. No longer ragged and unwanted, he looked content.
As winter shuffled into spring, my reflections shifted from how to why this toy bear had been discarded, in such a desolate location. But the answer, although at my fingertips, eluded me. Only when the weeds and grass grew thigh high and hid him from view, did I realize that he looked exactly like Barney, my childhood companion.

On a Saturday, right before bedtime, my father had presented him to me as a gift. My birthday wasn’t for a few months. On Sunday morning, Barney the Bear was still there, but my father was gone. My mother offered no explanation, as if he had never existed.
One week later, while my mother slept, I packed my toy suitcase and went out the door, clutching Barney under my arm. I walked to the end of our street and waited for the bus to take me to my father. I was convinced the bus driver would know where he had gone. Ten minutes later, my mother arrived in her bathrobe to take me home; the neighbors had warned her. Hand in hand, we walked home in silence. It would take me twenty years to understand the look on her face that morning, as I still clung to my farewell gift.

Two years later, during a road trip with my mother, I had found myself staring at Barney, at his threadbare face and glassy eyes. Without thought, I opened the window, grabbed my beloved bear and threw him outside, not looking back. The sky turned a deeper shade of blue.