Dear Shelly,
In all honesty, I feel a little bit stupid writing this right now. For one, you can’t read, and secondly, you’re unfortunately an inanimate object. I guess that won’t stop me from writing this because I’ve already started.
I first got you when I was three and took my first-ever trip to Build-a-Bear—soon to become my favorite store—and I made you. I can’t remember quite what the trip was for, maybe my half-birthday, maybe just a surprise, or maybe something different altogether, but all I know is that that day changed my life in a lot of ways.
I remember walking around the store timidly and immediately being drawn to the fluffy pink bear with hearts all over, and I have to admit that I was mildly horrified when I saw all the limp empty bears without stuffing. I picked you up brought you over to the pump and handed you off to be made into the perfect bear.
I was presented with a shiny plastic box filled to the brim with tiny sewn-together hearts and the hope of picking the perfect heart just for you. I was told to kiss it three times, hold it close to my own heart, and make a wish. I don’t remember what I wished for, but whatever it was, it must’ve worked out because you were the perfect bear. I walked over to the tablet grimy with fingerprints and was asked your name to fill out a birth certificate.
You’ve somehow stuck with me through three moves and countless trips despite my knack for losing things easily and as a new kid at school and through all the fearful, lamentable, and indignant moments of my life you were simply mine.
To this day, I and no one else in my family know how I thought of it, but I decided to name you Shelly. It was a fitting name for some reason, and although I was a creative kid, I still think that was the best thing I came up with.
I was always a volatile kid with my interests always shifting at a moment’s whim. I quickly grew bored with toys and stuffed animals and would throw them into an imaginary reject bin. Somehow through the at least 100 stuffed animals I’ve owned throughout my life, you’ve been the only one I never grew bored with.
There was the two-week period when I was convinced I had lost you, and I was so dejected and upset that my parents took me to Build-a-Bear to make a replacement (sorry about that). Unfortunately for them, and fortunately for you, you weren’t easily replaceable. I eventually found you shoved to the bottom of my mom’s hamper, but I remember crying thinking I was never going to see you again.
You’ve somehow stuck with me through three moves and countless trips despite my knack for losing things easily. As a new kid at school, and through all the fearful, lamentable, and indignant moments of my life, you were simply mine. Almost everyone has the childhood blanky or stuffed animal that has stuck by them for years, and you are mine. You’re older than two of my siblings, many things in our house, and almost everything I own, and I don’t know when I’ll get old enough to grow sick of you.
Your fluffiness has since been soaked with my tears, and I think your shape has been perfectly molded from my arms; the years have worn on you, shown only through the faded patches of pink across your surface and the many tears and Frankenstein jobs I’ve done in sewing you back together. I can only be glad that I chose the perfect heart to hold so close to mine.
Sincerely,
Your Forever Friend
