I’m eleven or twelve in this memory. I visit my maternal grandmother in the countryside during the summer break. As soon as my mother and I arrive at her house, I follow my grandmother to her bedroom to drop my bags. It’s a tradition between us to have a little chat there before joining others in the dining room for tea and snacks.
My grandmother has truly optimized her small bedroom. Every piece of the wall space is used to hang something, and as always, my gaze roams over the different items sprouting from the walls as I stand next to the door and my grandmother takes my bag to a corner.
The wall in front of me is occupied by a collection of paper fans from the summer festivals, followed by some bags and…a stuffed animal. A brown teddy bear holding a wooden hoop. Is that new? Because I don’t remember seeing it there before.
“Grandma, why do you have a teddy bear on your wall?” I ask, unable to hide my surprise.
“Oh, that one,” she smiles at the bear. “That’s yours.”
“What?”
“You left it here after one of your visits.”
“But I don’t remember this bear,” I frown at the innocent-looking teddy bear on the wall. “I don’t think it’s mine.”
“Well, that’s probably because you left it here many years ago,” replies my grandmother standing next to me. “When you were smaller. I recently found it while cleaning the house. I hung it here so you could take it with you upon your visit.”
I carefully examine the bear in front of me. Now that she explained, it looks somewhat familiar. But…
“I don’t remember this bear,” I repeat. “You can keep it, Grandma. I think the bear is comfortable here.”
My grandmother laughs and says she is happy to keep it there in that case. The brown teddy bear with a hoop stays on her wall for many years to follow.