We're the Little Things

In a dream when I was young, probably four or five, I lost my favorite stuffed animal – a ragged little thing I called Buddy. Buddy was a dog with a homemade collar. By the time he was mine, his white fur had faded to a dull gray. He wasn’t much, but he was mine. My first friend. So when I lost him in the dream, I woke in tears, sweating and shaking. My chubby fingers trembled as I scavenged my bed for the toy I cherished so greatly. When I found him, I remember holding him to my chest and breathing him in, eyes squeezed shut. Buddy shaped my childhood; he went everywhere with me, and if he wasn’t there, neither was I. I loved him.

There are few things I hold so close now.

Buddy is long gone, though he held out for a whopping thirteen years. I replaced him with a longing for accomplishment, always on the lookout for something fresh and new. My father will tell you genuinely that I’m always moving. Whether it’s a blessing or a curse I have yet to determine. But it works for me, and it’s gotten me this far. A job at the local bookstore, a high school diploma… enough to satisfy me.

For now.

Closing my notebook and pushing out of my desk chair, I start for the dining room where my dad is bound to be. The man is somewhat restricted in movement, and finds comfort in the familiarity of the plush chairs around the dining table. I can’t blame him. The lighting of the room is dim and easy on the eyes, an aspect that isn’t found in other rooms in the house, like the bathroom and his bedroom. Clearing my throat, I round the corner, greeting my father with a smile as warm as the light illuminating the space. Tugging up my jeans, I position myself on the opposite side of the table, fingers remaining on the hem of my pants, fiddling with the stitching.

“Going out today?” I ask, noticing the sheer layer of sweat on his forehead and seeping through his thin shirt. Had he already been out and about? No, he couldn’t have been, it’s hardly nine in the morning…