Most people have a secret treasure at home. I do. It is my very own teddy bear. It has been mine since I was a baby. He will be officially 13 years old on March 26, 2002.

Let me describe my tattered, yet lovable, teddy bear. He looks like a trampled flower along a broken path in the woods. His nose used to be leather covered, but it is now a shiny nose made out of plastic. All the leather has worn away over the twelve years that I have snuggled, cuddled, and loved him. My teddy bear has his fur matted down from many tender hugs. His eyes are hidden behind fur: you can only see a speck of them! My teddy bear's legs are about ready to fall off, poor guy. They are like a sapling that is drooping in the wind. The stuffing has moved more into the plump stomach of my teddy bear.

After all of my overuse, I know that I should put him in a box somewhere to keep him safe, but I love him and can't seem to "bear" life without his lovable, smiling face! He is important to me almost solely for the fact that he was, and still is, mine alone. I cry with him when I am sad; he doesn't tell any of my secrets! I laugh with him after I tell him a joke. He is always there for me, waiting in my room after a long day. I am there for him, because I love my tattered teddy bear.