My Dear Bootham 95%

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.

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.

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.”

Here’s a blog post draft based on the phrase “Looking at My Dear Bootham.” I’ve interpreted Bootham as a beloved pet (maybe a dog or cat with a quirky name), a childhood stuffed animal, or even a Tamil colloquial term for a mischievous but dear friend. You can adjust the details to fit your exact meaning. Looking at My Dear Bootham: A Quiet Lesson in Love and Imperfection my dear bootham

I’ve had Bootham for over twenty years.

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.

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. Bootham isn’t a person

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.

Looking at him now, as an adult, I realize something strange. His button eye is loose

We live in a world that tells us to grow up, declutter, minimize, Marie-Kondo anything that doesn’t “spark joy.” But Bootham doesn’t spark joy in a loud, Instagrammable way. He sparks memory. He sparks continuity. He reminds me that the child who loved him is still somewhere inside me—less loud, maybe, but not gone.

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.

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