For the contest of Natasha L Scragg
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As a child, I lined up my soft toys, making of them all a big parade. My mother tells me this. I was too young to recall it now, but I know inside my heart I have a tender spot for animals. I was drawn to cuddly ones stuffed with bliss and fluff. After I turned five, my memories became more lucid. I vividly recall a teddy bear named Pinky Winky. He was a typical toy, but one thing was distinctive. In one of his ears he had a bell, so everywhere I went with him, my sweet Pinky Winky would jingle. One day when I was maybe eight, Pinky Winky fell into the loo. I was filled with anguish when I learned my mother had tossed him to the trash. Why couldn’t she have given him a wash? I wept and wept for my beloved bear. A pink substitute my mother bought for me, but that one had no bell; I rarely played with it. Pinky Winky’s demise corresponded with the end of my beliefs in Santa Claus and the tooth fairy, and it was a time when I left behind much of my naivety. It’s doubtful no other soft toy could have replaced the death of my childhood innocence.
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