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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.
Bootham hasn’t changed. Not really. Sure, he’s more worn, more frayed around the edges. But his crooked smile is the same. His tiny stitched paws still reach out as if to say, “I’m still here.” my dear bootham
Some love doesn’t need to be understood. It just needs to be witnessed. When I was six, Bootham was my co-adventurer
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. He never interrupted
Looking at my dear Bootham tonight, I felt something I rarely allow myself to feel: tenderness without irony.
Bootham isn’t a person. Not exactly. Bootham is a small, slightly lopsided creature—half stuffed toy, half guardian of my childhood memories. His button eye is loose. His fur has long since matted into something that feels more like felt than fabric. One ear flops forward in a way that suggests he’s perpetively curious or perpetually confused. Maybe both.