I was attached to a stuffed toy monkey named Tommy. He was an important part of my life for as long as I can remember. I took Tommy everywhere with me, and there was real panic anytime I couldn’t find him. Tommy is still in my life. His fur has been worn off, the little music box inside him is long gone. His face and arms and legs are gone, replaced by socks. His little face has been replaced by a painted face, made by my mom. At age 70, I still have Tommy. He lays on the head of my bed. I can’t bring myself to part with Tommy. When I leave this earth and am buried, he will be right there with me, a symbol of my first, best friend.