Driving home this evening, I watched as two hawks caught the last of the warm air updrafts, and rode the rising wind, their wings only silouhettes against the orange and pink sky. I glanced at the young child holding me, and from the look in his eyes, I knew it woud be a nice evening. Not another evening of TV, of boredom, but one that might just turn out to be special. At least, that's what I hoped. So many nights, all different, going home with different kids, yet so glaringly similar. Ws this doomed to be my fate? Perpetually seeing such beauty in the world, and yet, such unhappiness within it, and to be unable to change any of it?

When I was bought, I sat on the rack just like 20 other bears, dressed alike in our green overalls, our brown fur as yet unruffled, still with price tags clipped to our brown noses. I sometimes look back at those days when I was on the shelf, and the places us bears would dream of going, of what kind of kid would get us, and if we'd be careed for, placed ina toy box, or merely thrown in a corner. I suppose my fate was to be different. Of course, we bears cannot speak, but our button eyes see far more than one might think.

My first few weeks after being purchased were somewhat mundane, I sat in a classroom, without any children in it, and watched as a nice, middle aged teacher prepared her lessons for the upcoming year. Every once ina while, 'd catch her gazing wistfully at me, and then set back to writing in a book, her pen flowing easily it seemed across the papers. Once scholl began, I was no longer relegated to a back table. I was placed in the front of the room, and suddenly I had a name! It seemed to fit me, and the kids thought so too. The teacher explained to the children what my purpose was, and I grew as excited aas they did. I was to go home with a different kid every night, and the parents of that child were to keep a brief journal of what we did that night.

The first two weeks, it was wonderful. I had a special bag, the kids took me home each night, and since it was early in the fall yet, we palyed outside, I was shown to all kinds of neat animals who sniffed and licked me, and little brothers and sisters hugged me. I suppose it was predictable though, that the novelty of a mascot bear would soon wear off though. What I wasn't prepared for, was the reasons why. It wasn't that the kids weren't excited anymore, it was something else. I don't know if I can ever actually explain it, for it's more based on subtleties of manner, different looks, even an careless indifference.

I went to one house the other night, with a young girl who put me carefully in my bag, and held that bag close to her on the way home. Her mother, a middleaged frumpy lady driving carelessly, began to yell at the girl, and though there was no reason for the verbal punishment, almost abuse, the girl quietly apologized for unknown reasons, and I felt her squeeze my sack tighter. I listened silently that night, as the little girl, wise for her years, asked me questions, and then answered them herself, of the things wrong with her world.

Another house, two days after, the bus dropped two young boys off, and within mere minutes, I was being thrown into the air like a ball, and kicked against the side of a worn out mobile home. There was no one inside of it, the only people home were the two boys. The youngest, on seeing a car come down the road, proceeded to throw me quickly into some dark corner under some boards, and throughout the night, I listened as the parents fought until very late, and after they had quieted down, I saw a glimpse of the young boy, staring out his window at the sky, both hatred and sadness in his eyes. I hope the sadness within him will win, but each time I go home with him, I know my hopes are to be in vain.

There is one girl who, every time I am given to her, she sets me up amongst her other stuffed animals in front of her own television, and we watch the same cartoons each night. She seems to like them, but her eyes are flatter and duller then the animals she lines up.

It seems that a whole week will go by with this pervading sadness, a sense of life cut short, or worse yet, never given the chance to sprout, to see the sun,. to grow. And yet, the few nights I go home with a special one or two kids, it makes up, seemignly for the rest.

He saw the two hawks, and called out to his mother to watch them. His eyes were distant, knowing, yet young and innocent. On odd quality, I thought, watching the setting sun cast a warm glow on his face. A face yet untouched by malice, he watched the birds gracefully sail, and I knew his thoughts were not to hurt them, to cast them down, to cause them pain, or hurt. I know part of him wished in some way to be able to be like them, to soar among them, to see the world in a new light, not merely to escape what lay below. As they flew out of sight, he looked at me, and I had a sudden fear, that he knew I was watching him all along, but he smiled, and held me close to him.

Sometimes, I wonder if some kids really know we are there, watching them, and I think we are unable to change things, unable to tell them anything. Of course, I know that we can help, that we do change things, inanimate as we are, for something in those few children is able to seek us out, and tell us of what they dream of, what they want, and what they think of.

We always listen, and answer.