My mother was only 16 when she had me. For all intents and purposes, I'm very lucky she was Catholic I suppose. But I was put up for adoption. The only relic I owned from my real mother was a stuffed mouse she bestowed upon my birth that had a wind-up mechanism that played 'Brahm's Lullaby.'
That stuffed mouse, who somewhere along the road acquired the name 'Mousey' was my inseparable companion growing up, through foster homes and eventual adoption. The Hobbes to my Calvin. The Rosebud to my Kane. His music box mechanism long-since stopped working, his delicate felt hands multiple times replaced, his tail worn to nothing. I grew up drawing comics about Mousey and his adventures, and he never strayed far from my bed.
Then, tragically, when I left home as a teen, he was lost, a loss that has haunted me since. A gnawing at my heart akin to the Velveteen Rabbit. A piece of my soul extant.
Finally yesterday, after over a lifetime of searching, I've found that same plush Mouse again. Produced by a long-since dissolved Toy company called Bantam.