So tonight, I’ll tighten his loose button eye. I’ll dust him off. And I’ll put him back on the shelf—not as a decoration, but as a reminder.
Looking at him now, as an adult, I realize something strange. my dear bootham
Meanwhile, I’ve changed a hundred times over. I’ve moved cities, changed jobs, lost people, found new ones, forgotten who I was and rebuilt myself from scratch. And through all of it, Bootham sat quietly on a shelf, in a box, or at the foot of my bed—waiting. So tonight, I’ll tighten his loose button eye
I’ve had Bootham for over twenty years. Looking at him now, as an adult, I realize something strange
When I was six, Bootham was my co-adventurer. He rode shotgun on bicycle trips down the hallway. He listened to every complaint about homework, every secret crush, every fear I couldn’t say out loud to anyone else. He never interrupted. He never judged. He just sat there, unblinking, patient as stone and soft as forgiveness.