Giselle and the teddy bear

Behind the house where I live, there’s a 20-metres-tall teddy bear holding out his hand to me. It’s actually a clump of trees, spread over several gardens, that looks like a teddy bear from my window. He’s tilting his head to my right, so his left, and looking down at me. He plays with the little people in his dollhouse and takes care of us. I think I’m the only one who can see him.

I first recognised him when I sat by the window. That was just after I’d moved into my new room. I was studying a philosophical text on technology and looking out of my window lost in thought, when I was startled by the teddy bear’s gaze. We made eye contact and he introduced himself. Since then, I always sit by the window, so he can see I’m doing well.

Meanwhile, I’m making his dollhouse more mine. I’ve moved in a comfy chair with a green blanket and an orange pillow. There are bottles of perfume that smell of grannies. Since yesterday, there’s a set made of porcelain: a vase, a mirror and a brush holder, all with pink flowers. Turning a space into a home is difficult. I still feel empty in a full room. Still, I like that the teddy bear can see that I’m taking good care of his dollhouse.

As it gets darker, I’m staying indoors. I see how his fur discolours and falls out and I find it harder and harder to recognise him. When it’s late and dark and I have my pyjamas on, the moon shines ever more clearly through his head. Of his hand, only the skeletal branches remain. I muse and brush my hair in the dark. In just over a month, it will be my birthday and all its leaves will be gone. I’ll continue to fill my new home with warmth. I wonder if the tree will become a bear again in spring.