Polar Beary

After Vic passed, Kenzo asked me quietly one day,

“Did Dad ever give you something to remember him by?”

I told him about the little gifts Vic used to bring back for me from his travels - especially through Singapore. Mostly soft toys. Small, sweet things he knew I’d smile at. I mentioned the plush polar bear from the Singapore Zoo.

Kenzo asked if he could have it.

He named it Polar Beary and has been hugging it to sleep every night since.

Sometimes I tease him, “You know, Polar Beary’s actually mine.”
And he shoots back, “No, he’s mine. Dad gave him to me.”
I grin and reply, “Nooo, he gave him to me.”
Without missing a beat, Kenzo says,

“Yeah, but you gave him to me. So now he’s mine.”

That quick wit. That quiet claiming of love.

I laughed and said,

“Well then, by that logic, you belong to me too.”
And he looked at me - soft, serious - and said,
“No. I’m not yours. I’m yours and Dad’s.”

And it stopped me in my tracks.

Even now, Kenzo never separates us.
Even in death, he sees himself as belonging to both of us. Loved by both. Still held by both.

I gently asked him, “Are you happy staying with me full time?”

He nodded yes.
But then he added,

“I just didn’t like how Dad died.”

There was no fear in his words. No confusion. Just honesty.

It reminded me that his grief is still unfolding, even when it doesn’t look loud. It’s in the way he hugs Polar Beary. In the way he includes Vic in every drawing. In the way he knows exactly who he belongs to.

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