beneath pillows.

Its so weird to be asked to choose what part of your daily life will remain daily. Within my bedroom, I don't see a whole lot of things I need. I see a surprising amount of things I don't even really like anymore; remnants of old importance that have lost their luster. Decorative bulk.
Baggage don't follow me.
Laying in bed a few nights ago I couldn't stop running through my possessions in my head, and through the realms of unworn clothes and dusty books I suddenly thought of a two foot long stuffed dog.
Hunter; my childhood comfort.
He was a last minute purchase from Walmart twelve years ago, before the first of many emotional trips between parents. He was a purchase with a purpose; a job. My mom made me promise he could ride on every plane ride between North Carolina and Texas. He did. My only company as an unaccompanied minor.
I had just turned six; around the age you realize just because you speak English, doesn't mean you are English. You're just a white American. And that it isn't okay to call the common colored band-aid, "skin colored." Its not everybody's.
What odd manifestations.
I don't think of Hunter often. He's bulky and for years has served as little more than additional support jammed between my headboard and mattress beneath a plethora of pillows.
I reached for him then though and was indescribably happy to feel his matted coat, grabbing him by a now stiff limb hanging by patches of make-do thread from joints worn limber, I pulled him into my chest.
In the darkness I felt his long limp felt-lined ears for the blue thread, that in my sewing ambitions as a ten year old I had begun to sew my name into, but in a loss of interest and thread, reads only “taylo”.
The subtleties of his condition say a lot about his keeper.
Its surreal to leave home. I don’t know what to do with things like Hunter. Where does he go? The downgrade from queen to twin hardly pulls in his favor.
Maybe my mom could use a little more pillow support.
Maybe I’m not ready to give it up.
Sometimes when you're expected to be an adult the most, you find yourself holding onto comforts of the past.