My grandma
gave me Mister Patches when I was just four years old and still afraid of the
dark.
“Just hold
it close when the lights go out and make sure you don’t let go” she’d whispered
in my ear, as she handed me the disheveled teddy bear. Mister Patches was a
veteran of two World Wars, and it showed: he had a button for an eye and a
square of tricolette fabric on his belly. He had plaid armpits and the ends of
his feet were clad in felt. His smile was crooked, the black thread that
originally outlined his mouth long since torn, replaced halfway through by a
bright blue thread. It made his mouth look funny, like he was smiling two
different kinds of smiles:
“One” my
grandma said, pointing at the black-thread half “is for children that have
good-dreams. The other” she turned Mister Patches, showing the mad zig-zag of
blue “is for bogeymen, which Mister Patches eats.”
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