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.
Some love doesn’t need to be understood. It just needs to be witnessed. 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. So tonight, I’ll tighten his loose button eye
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. Some love doesn’t need to be understood
Looking at my dear Bootham tonight, I felt something I rarely allow myself to feel: tenderness without irony.
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.
There’s a certain kind of peace that comes late in the evening, when the world finally shuts its mouth and all that’s left is the soft hum of the refrigerator and the weight of your own thoughts. Tonight, I found myself sitting on the floor, cross-legged, just… looking at my dear Bootham.