We don't need words. We can sit for hours and just look at each other. His shiny dark eyes are always focused on me, his red lips always smiling widely. His soft, pale skin is framed by his bright red, curly hair. He is not muscular. In fact, he is soft and flexible. It doesn't matter that he is not perfectly shaped and he dresses only as well as my taste permits. I choose all of his clothing—whether it is casual—jogging pants and a tee shirt that matches his fiery red head of soft curls or a business suit complete with trousers, shirt, vest, and jacket.

He is always tolerant and accepting—nods in agreement as I tell him about my day or how I was mistreated. He always understands and empathizes with me. He allows me to influence him, and just smiles at my frequent inconsistencies. He doesn't care that I am not the smartest, or that I do not speak as well as some other people, or that sometimes my logic does not make sense. He accepts me and loves me more than anyone. He never calls me names or makes me feel stupid.

I wonder what other people would think if they saw us together. I am tall and heavy—and imposing figure—with angry dark eyes and almost black hair. I don't think anyone would understand why he means so much to me or just what I see in him. I hold him close to me and suddenly the world doesn't seem like such a scary place. The two of us together can accomplish anything. He is my rock, my hero, despite the fact that he sits quietly—the strong, silent Clint Eastwood type—and despite the fact that he may not be attractive or important to anyone but me.

But how do you erase all the warm thoughts and special moments that we've shared? How do you say good-bye to a friend, someone who has been there for you when it felt like no one else was—his gaze so attentive, his wide, warm smile so reassuring.

Who is he? He is my best friend, Eddie. With Eddie, I don't have to have all the answers. But then, Eddie can't talk back. His soft fabric mouth only moves when I insert my hand into the opening in the back of his stuffed, round head. He is a puppet—was a unique gift from my grandmother on my fifth birthday—was my constant companion until I got too old to carry him around. Now he just sits on the bureau. Some day, perhaps, I will put him away, but for today he sits—reassuring me that not everything has to change—at least not right now.