We live in a world that tells us to grow up, declutter, minimize, Marie-Kondo anything that doesn’t “spark joy.” But Bootham doesn’t spark joy in a loud, Instagrammable way. He sparks memory. He sparks continuity. He reminds me that the child who loved him is still somewhere inside me—less loud, maybe, but not gone.
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. my dear bootham
And Bootham has been watching over me the whole time. Do you have a Bootham in your life? Something worn, quiet, and impossibly dear? Tell me about them in the comments. I’d love to know. We live in a world that tells us
Looking at my dear Bootham tonight, I felt something I rarely allow myself to feel: tenderness without irony. He reminds me that the child who loved
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.”
I’ve had Bootham for over twenty years.
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.