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.

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.

I’ve had Bootham for over twenty years.

Looking at my dear Bootham tonight, I felt something I rarely allow myself to feel: tenderness without irony.

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.