In this memory, I am five years old. My little brother is fond of Winnie-the-Pooh, and he has a big plush doll of Pooh bear. I don’t know how his love of this character and the story originally started, but all I know is that he often reads out loud the picture book of Winnie-the-Pooh, and the Pooh bear plush is his favourite doll.
The picture book my brother reads is about the story of Pooh visiting the house of Rabbit, eating too much honey, and getting stuck at the entrance on his way back home. After reading the scene, he takes his Pooh bear plush, places it between some gap, and pretends to pull it hard.
“He ate too much,” he explains as he pulls his Pooh bear plush. “So, he can’t get out. He’s stuck!”
When my brother makes a long-term stay at the hospital with his mother, his Pooh bear plush also travels with him. At his hospital bed, Winnie-the-Pooh remains his favourite. He reads out the book, then puts the Pooh bear plush in the gap between the bars of his bed. This is a perfect gap because it is narrow, and his Pooh bear indeed cannot pass through it.
“Ei, ei!” He pretends to pull the Pooh bear with all his force, but he cannot come through the gap. “He ate too much!”
I sometimes feel sorry for the Pooh bear plush who is always stuck between a gap and pulled by my brother. Such is my little brother’s love of Winnie-the-Pooh and his story.