Monkeys

The three women in my family sleep with monkeys. Stuffed, doll monkeys. I don't know why this happened.

It started with my mother. When she had her shoulder surgery, my sister and I bought her this purple stuffed monkey from the hospital gift store. He was so cute and happy and inviting . . . she had to have him for her recovery! It was a totally spontaneous purchase. She still has the monkey today . . . he rests on her bed, waiting for her every night. She said she even talks to him sometimes.

The next monkey came to my sister. Hers called to her from across a busy street. He and his brothers were in a shop window, just waiting. Her boyfriend at the time bought one for her. She would carry him around the house for company and comfort. Good thing, too. The boyfriend left. Monkey stayed. He watches over my sister's house while she's at work – keeping the piggy bank company. He sleeps with her at night.

My monkey is a brother of my sister's. Monkey came to me in the mail from Australia for my birthday last year. I didn't think I needed a monkey – but he has become very important to me. He hangs out on my bed during the day and tucks in with me at night. He's cuddly and soft and friendly and calm, my stuffed monkey. He just waits and is always there when you need him. He's tender, Monkey is. And the longer I have him, the more I love his company.

I just think it's kind of curious that all three of us have Monkey friends who guard our beds.