Burt is the kind of dad everyone should have. Holds little babies as if they were the gods’ own treasures; plays with the toddlers; treats little girls to merry-go-rounds and lots of colorfully illustrated books and art supplies; little boys to Tonka trucks, small-hand size tools and paints, encyclopedias, roller skates and skis; and young men and women as if they were better than royalty.
I had Burt when I was a little kid. Everyone else thought he was Pooh, but I didn’t like that it sounded like he was being pooh-poohed, so I secretly called him Burt. We snuck ginger snaps from the cupboard together.
When I had the run-in with the dentist, Burt became my very, very, very best friend. He held me tight as I laid there splayed on my bed, unmoving, staring at a blurred ceiling, numb, unbelieving, wishing for someone who could tell me who I really was and that I might be lovable and that I’d never be betrayed by any person or my own body ever again.