Pass It On

At some early point in my grandparents' marriage, my grandfather bought my grandmother a fur coat. This has always been a fact that fascinated me. Having never known them when they were young and in love, it seemed to me an act so out of character, so at odds with what I knew of them. They were the ultimate practical midwesterners, a farm family whose values of thrift, hard work, and utility saw them through the Great Depression and eked out a living from their land for their family's future. The coat was beautiful. I don't know what kind of fur it was--nothing exotic, I'm sure, most likely rabbit. It had a burgundy lining that was a satiny material, and the one time I put it on, it slipped on so effortlessly and felt so light. And I always imagined that my frugal grandmother, with her warm, sentimental heart, when she wore it, must have felt completely wrapped in such extravagant love.

My grandparents' move from their enormous farmhouse to the tiny apartment where they spent their final years necessitated a major downsizing of their possessions, and the coat was one thing that had to go. As it turned out, there was an acquaintance of the family who had a special skill--she was able to take fur coats and turn them into teddy bears. So my grandmother's coat became several very warm, very soft brown teddy bears. The satiny ribbons around their necks were made from the coat's burgundy lining. Most went to family members--Grandma and Grandpa kept one.

I don't know for sure what Grandma did with it, I only know it was on her bed as long as I can remember. That doesn't mean she slept with it, but I like to think she did. I hate to think of her sleeping alone. I have always hated sleeping alone, even when I was a child. I'm raising at least one child who hates to sleep alone too. After the divorce, when his father had been out of the house for only weeks, it was a first line of attack. "Mom, I've been thinking. Your bed is made for two people, and I really wouldn't want you to be lonely." No. You are not moving into my room. "But Mom, wouldn't it be great if we could just use my room as a playroom? It could be so neat and organized!"  Good try, but still no. I suppose some day he will eventually get too old, but in the meantime, while I feign obligatory mild annoyance at being occasionally woken in the middle of the night for a storm, or a nightmare, or some other reason, I am still just as satisfied that there is space for him to lie down in my room until morning.

There is something telling to me about that moment at the end of the day, when all that's outside retreats and we are left with only our nearest and dearest, pulled close in the place of both our greatest vulnerability and greatest safety. I like to think that on those long nights after my grandfather was gone, it was the bear that kept Grandma company, with the same warm love as the coat he bought her always had. When Grandma died, her bear came to me, and it sits on my bed too. She may not have slept with it, I guess, but I often do. I think about how it must have been for her, sleeping without her friend and partner of 73 years, and how I hope the bear was like having a hug from him again. I think about how, for me, it is like having a hug from her. I wonder, what are the tokens of extravagant love my boys will have from me, the talismans that will keep them company in the night when I am gone? And maybe Grandma and I are both too old to sleep with a teddy bear, but I know she wouldn't have minded about a thing like that, and these things I also know--there is love in the world, and we are not alone. And we must keep passing it on.