His name was Alphie.
He was blue. Soft. The softness that absorbs sadness instead of asking questions. When I was hurting, he made it hurt less.
My mother bought him for me when I was eight and covered in chickenpox—itchy, feverish, and miserable. I was heartbroken more than sick. She had taken my sister to Knott’s Berry Farm, and I’d been left behind. At eight years old, that felt like abandonment, even if it wasn’t meant to be.
I don’t know where she got Alphie. Maybe she won him. Maybe she picked him up without much thought. I never asked. It didn’t matter. What mattered was that she saw him. That she brought him home. That was enough.
Alphie stayed with me until I moved out and into my grandparents’ house—long story, the kind that changes you whether you want it to or not. I don’t know why I didn’t take him with me. The move was rushed. Chaotic. Maybe I forgot. Maybe I assumed he’d always be there. I regret that more than I can explain.
I don’t know exactly what happened to him after that. My mother and stepfather moved. My grandparents and I—along with my one-year-old daughter—moved from California to Colorado. There was no going back for my things. My mom and stepfather had a storage shed in the yard. I imagine Alphie ended up there, buried among boxes and forgotten memories. Years later, when my stepfather cleaned it out, everything was tossed—Alphie included, along with my now-expensive Nagel prints. He didn’t care. He never did.
I wish I still had Alphie.
He saved me from nightmares. From loneliness. From sadness I didn’t yet have words for. He brought me comfort and joy during years when I needed both more than I knew.
I’m now 56 years old, and I still miss him.
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