The Great Stuffed-Animal Play Land in the Sky.

At some point in my early childhood, I acquired a small, stuffed, brown owl. Bernardo. I wish I could remember how he got the name that evokes an elderly, cigar-smoking foreigner with a terrible thick black mustache, but somehow this is what he became: Bernardo. He was the quintessential childhood icon; the toy that went everywhere with me—-from the potty to bottle lunches. Milk-soaked and stinky, he was my friend.

At fourteen, I met Justin. When we broke up after a year, I remember confessing to my mother, whom I never confided in, that I loved him. In hindsight, I view this is as an adolescent conviction that wasn’t really true—-that it wasn’t really love, but the idea of love (something that I wanted to really believe in). In this amorous mania, I gave Justin my beloved Bernardo. At the age of fourteen, the act of giving Bernardo to Justin was like exchanging vows; it was a serious act. What makes it a big deal is not the symbolism it once represented, but what it represents now: the actual loss of something that I miss.

I sometimes think about writing Justin. I’ve constructed at least a half a dozen mental letters. But none of these thoughts have made it to paper until now. How would someone react to letter about wanting a childhood toy? For all I know, Bernardo probably doesn’t exist anymore—-perhaps he is in the great stuffed-animal play land in the sky.

But part of me thinks maybe Bernardo is still “alive” stuffed away somewhere (or perhaps proudly displayed) in Justin’s place of dwelling. And this idea keeps me thinking, constantly constructing those mental letters. The idea of Bernardo being somewhere, someplace tangible, and that he is somehow within my reach, makes me want to make those mental letters real.