My Andy

If you saw him today, you’d probably walk right past him.

He is my Andy and I have loved him for over 50 years.

See those holes in his top? They mark the spot where his shirt rubbed up against my pyjamas when I was young. Maybe even when I was not so young.

Gramma Gillespie gave Andy to me when I was 3 or 4. My twin sister got Raggedy Ann. She – Raggedy Ann, not my sister – met an untimely end in the 70s. She disappeared for a while and we had no idea where she could be. Then, one Spring, we pulled the sleeping bags out of the basement or the shed and found Raggedy Ann deep inside one the bags. The months of cold and damp had not been kind to Raggedy Ann. She was a covered in mold. There was no resuscitating her.

Andy has had some repairs. In high school, I recovered his feet because the black fabric had begun to wear and stuffing was falling out. I remember feeling very proud of my handiwork.

His nose might be gone and the stitches of his smile may be falling out, but the sparkle in his eye is still there.