Describe an item you were incredibly attached to as a child. What became of it?
Her name was Bunny, and she was my very best friend. I took her everywhere with me. At night, she slept tucked under my arm. During the day, I decorated her ears with clips and scrunchies, whispered secrets to her, and carried her along on adventures.
One memory of Bunny has never left me. My mom had invited a friend over, who brought her two sons along. I sat quietly in the living room with Bunny in my lap when one of the boys suddenly snatched her away. They began tossing her back and forth, laughing, while I chased and cried, desperate to get her back. It was a cruel game of Monkey in the Middle, except the “ball” was my dearest friend.
At last, I caught hold of Bunny’s legs while one of the boys pulled on her ears. We tugged back and forth until, with a terrible rip, one ear tore clean off. I was devastated. To me, it wasn’t just fabric that ripped—it was my friend who had been hurt. Sobbing, I ran to my mother. She scolded the boys, but there I stood with Bunny in one hand and her detached ear in the other. My mom promised she would sew it back on, but she never did. Instead, she stitched the hole closed, leaving Bunny forever changed.
As a child, stuffed animals are more than toys. They’re companions, confidants, sources of comfort when the world feels uncertain. Looking back, I see how holding Bunny soothed my emotions and reminded me I wasn’t alone. Around fourth grade, I stopped playing with her as much. She became bed décor, then sat on a closet shelf, and now rests safely in a container tucked away.
One day, if I have a daughter, I’ll probably pass Bunny on to her. I hope she feels the same sense of comfort and love that I did. After all, Bunny may be missing an ear, but she’s still full of heart.
