A Body Without A Voice

To most people, the only significance that inanimate objects seem to hold is that of a day to day function or even decoration. My mind seems to wander, however, when pacing the aisles of the kids’ section of my local thrift store. The soulless eyes of the well loved stuffed animals that haphazardly line the shelves, their kind, beady black eyes staring right back at me. The way the soft fabric of its synthetic fur rubs against my own skin reminds me of my own childhood, as well as the life that the plush toy itself had lived before we had crossed paths.

I think about the soft hands of a child, gripping onto the toy’s even softer arm, dragging it against the hardwood floors of a house filled with memories already made and those yet to come. I think about the nights it spent in the child’s arms, suffocated against the blankets at the eruption of a restless nightmare. How it may have been dragged around their backyard, the tears that ran down that child’s cheeks at the sight of the inevitable dirt that had gathered within the fluffy toy’s fur. The way it tumbled in the dryer as the child watched on, fearful that the limbs would detach with every thump and clang.

The toys seem to stare back at me with fear in their eyes, as if they hope and pray that their new owner won’t need as much protection as their previous one. They seem to remember the days spent soaking in the tears of their owner, their ears ringing almost nearly as much as the child’s as they listen to the argument that is spoken so loudly that it drifts up the stairs and past the child’s thick wooden door. Their worn fur tells me stories of a child’s hand gripping so painfully on their limbs in fear of their mistake being discovered.

Something about the way that their back is stitched up seemingly over and over again doesn’t quite sit well with me. As they stare back at me, they seem to cry out a string of apologies, a phrase that they had learned from hearing it so often. Their manufactured smiles masking the pain that they’ve experienced in the life that they have lived before me.

Their soft fur contrasts against the cold, white metal shelves that seem to house new toys every week. A strong sense of melancholy strikes my heart at the thought of a child abandoning their beloved stuffed animal. I wonder if they were weeded out of a bunch or forcefully torn away or just suffered from lack of interest. My heart connects with these abandoned stuffed toys, their unloved plump faces staring back at me as if to ask how they ended up back at the same place they started off. The way they looked at me made me feel like they were expecting an answer; it seemed as if they wanted to know what they did to deserve all of the hurt that came along with being rejected when you believed that the love they gave was supposed to be unconditional.

It hurt that I couldn’t answer, that I didn’t have one. I wondered if there was hope for them, if there was a possibility that they would end up in the arms of another person that would love them just as much as they could possibly hope for, if not more. That’s what I hoped for, maybe a little too much.

I watch as a pair of kids, possibly siblings, race past me and gaze up at the stuffed toys with wonder. With nothing more to do, I watch on, hoping for more than pain in their future as they pick out their favourite stuffed animals that were within, as well as eye level. Something dragged itself up from deep within my soul, something dark and long forgotten, as my own hand extended to reach out and grab the toy of my choice.

The bear stares at me with similar dark, beady eyes. Memories of my own childhood rush back at the sight of the bear, as if its memories matched mine. My heart ached for the patchwork of fabric and stuffing as I drew it close to my chest. I promised myself to not let it suffer the same fate, to give it a better home than it had seen before.

Looking back at it now, that same bear sitting in the corner of my room on the cushioned chair with clothes stacked high on the backrest, I hoped that I fulfilled that promise. It is what I’d want for myself, after all. The bear smiles back at me, grateful for the stability that I had provided him. I am overwhelmed by peace, my anxiety dissipating.