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.”
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. my dear bootham
Looking at my dear Bootham tonight, I felt something I rarely allow myself to feel: tenderness without irony. Bootham hasn’t changed
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. But his crooked smile is the same
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.