Playing with the Bears

For a long time, I went to bed early.

I thought that would help; that maybe if I wasn’t awake late at night or early in the morning, the thought wouldn’t come. They would leave me alone and let me suffer in peace.

How wrong I was. Even if I wasn’t awake to actively think, my brain still betrayed me by slipping them into my dreams. II would toss and turn, crying out to the point that my husband would have to wake me up. We would sit there, wrapped up in our blankets and each other, with me bawling my eyes out.

I was completely zombie-like. With the combined efforts of no sleep and guilt, I couldn’t function properly. I couldn’t – wouldn’t – eat, talk, or keep my attention on any one thing for more than ten minutes.

They tried to tell me that it wasn’t my fault, even though I knew it was. When we adopted our little boy, I wanted to be the best parent in the world. We would sit and talk, laughing about the made up stories I would tell him. Bears were his favorite thing on the planet, but he would always say that they came second to his father and I. He always asked about them, always curious and wanting to know everything about the four legged animals.

“Dad,” he would ask, “Can we go play with the bears?”

Of course I always told him no. They were dangerous, I sad. Not for little boys to mess around with.

Then, on the very first sunniest, nicest day of the year, my husband and I couldn’t find him. We looked all over, but he was nowhere to be found. Eventually we found the note, written in his cute little handwriting, that he was going to play with the bears.

Naturally we called the police. But even now, five years later, we still haven’t found him. I think of him out there, playing with his bear. And I want him home.

But wherever they go, and whatever happens to them on the way, in that enchanted place on the top of the Forest, a little boy and his Bear will always be playing.