I have a friend. He happens to be my best friend in the whole world. I've known him since...well, I don't remember. Every memory I seem to have, somehow, contains him.
He sat in forts made out of bed sheets and dining room chairs with me while we read Green Eggs and Ham to each other. He knew where all my secret hiding places were, and of course, he was the prefered friend to all my imaginary ones. We sat in a garage together (which was really a beach) on a towel and under an umbrella while the rain poured outside. We dove under the covers with a flash light and read Harry Potter books while silently gasping at all the right moments. He was the first person I told when I fell in love with the boy who lived down the street. He contains every thing that seems to compile what it is to be me.
Sure, he's had some rough times. The leather that once covered his nose has long rubbed away. His eyes are almost always covered by his matted fur. The holes in his paws seem to get bigger by the day, and, well, I'm the only one that can tell that he has a smile, still. He's been thrown in suitcases and backpacks and dragged across the globe. His passport is as thick as mine. He's soaked up more tears than anyone can ever know and he's battled the washing machine many times.
Horrifyingly, his head fell off one night while I ran to my parent's bed, sick with a fever. I climbed into the bed only to discover my best friend's body was missing. Distraught, I ran out of the room into the corridor where his lifeless corpse lay, headless. My mum promised to sew him back together, but I think it took a good hour before I had finally cried myself to sleep, needing my friend to comfort me when I was ill. After that day his head seemed to roll off every now and then and the hole in his neck seemed permanent until we had him professionally reconstructed.
3 years ago, an airport security guard pulled him from my arms and violated him in front of me. Tears stung my eyes and when the disgruntled guard was finally satisfied that he wasn't some drug smuggling hippie, the guard received a few angry words from me notifying him that if I had been 10 years younger he'd have had a huge problem on his hands. The ordeal was scarring for the both of us, to say the least.
As a birthday draws nearer, for both of us, he's the piece of home that I cling to. He's every memory that I know of and I cannot help but think, he'll still be there for whatever is to come. He'll still be the one that I confess my secrets to, sitting in my room, waiting for me to sit on my bed with him. I'm sure I have more tears for him to dry, we have more adventures to share, and more secrets to tell.
I don't ever want to be a grown up.
