Old Friend

She never could bear to part with me, my incredible best friend. Not since the moment she lifted me from the box and I first opened my eyes. There were lights overhead, flashing blue, green, and red in cycles. Behind her was a giant tree, covered in glittering strands of green and red, and topped with a gold star. I remember how tightly she clutched me to her chest, and I felt at home. 

We travelled the world together. From the suffocating humidity of an airport in Singapore, to the sharp tang of winter in Europe. Together, we sang and danced through what she told me was London Heathrow, and then we watched the world rush by from a seat on a bus in Finland. Hills of snow, glistening as white as my shell, stood against a sky the sun dared not touch. So different from where we met in Australia, where the sun threatened to melt the plastic from my tiny bones. 

Ah, my extraordinary bestie. The experiences we had, I’ll never forget.

We returned to the plastic-melting place, where the cicadas are never quiet, even late at night. They sing–and loudly at that!–until the sun rises again the next day, drenching the world outside the window in a golden light.

When my best friend would cry, my arms wrapped over her ears and through her hair in only the most supportive of hugs. She was lamenting the loss of a person we met in Finland. Someone she held as tenderly as she does I. 

Softly, so as to not disturb her solitude, I would sing in the early hours of the morning as she lay sleeping, her hand wrapped around me. Each deep breath reminded me of the comfort I was bringing her. It was the least I could do for her, after all the adventures we had, and all the love she had given me. 

Those moments are forever within my heart, even as I lay on the hard wood of a cold drawer and wait for her to pick me up again. I wonder if she will return today? My buttons have turned a little hard with age, but who doesn't change as they get older? 

My arms feel stiff and tired, wrapped together in a neat knot to keep me from intertwining with other friends in this drawer. There’s Nokia, an old friend of both my friend and I. He was always so reliable and friendly. Somewhere, I hear the weak tick-tock of the time-teller. He lets me know it is three in the afternoon. He sounds weak. Tired, much like myself, but he's too far away for me to see and comfort. 

Music used to zing through me, lighting me up from inside and making me want to dance again. Without my best friend's help, I cannot. I feel weak, and sleepy. The time-teller crackles out that it is three in the afternoon. 

It feels like he only just told me that? 

From here, I can't see the sun nor the moon. Time passes in waves of quiet nothingness. I suffer from loneliness, empty and cold. Dust coats my buttons. It doesn't hurt. It’s more like a blanket, and if I close my eyes and imagine hard enough, it almost feels like her hand is wrapped around me as we ride on the bus. Seeing the white sparkle of snow; seeing the gardens of Singapore airport. 

As we watch the curvature of the earth from a plane window, I play her favourite song for her for the fifteenth time in an hour. My arms are holding her face so tenderly, and she is smiling, her head against the window. 

Are we–

The time-teller croaks out that it is three, but his voice falters and falls silent halfway through. I hear a cough, the splintering of something metallic, and then silence. Time-teller's quiet tick-tock is gone. I wonder how long it will be before I meet the same fate. Sentenced to a silence from which I can never recover, buried under the weight of time. 

I long for the warmth of her fingers, as dust coats my face and my arms crack and splinter with age. It is becoming unbearable to stay awake. I think I am the only one who remains awake here. 

For how much longer, I am unsure. I feel both hot and cold at the same time, and my face is wrong. Off. Kind of twisted and lifted, as though pulling away from my body and exposing my bones.

Light hits me. It feels dim and clouded, as though shed through the leaves of a tree. It reminds me of lying on a river bank, listening to the water rush by as a storm rumbles in the distance. She reads a book on biology, humming along as I sing. We are–were–so in sync. 

I can see her, through the remains of my face, peering down at me with the same kind, loving eyes that I remember. She has barely changed. She speaks to me but I can't hear what she’s saying, even as her fingers rub the dust free of my face. The words sound affectionate, excited, nostalgic–I am so happy to hear her voice again and I try to sing for her. My buttons don’t work, and my bones are sparking but I can’t do anything. 

I’m so sorry. 

This is the end for me. 

As I fall silent and still, it is with a joy I didn't think I would ever know again. It is with love, and memories, and the touch of her hand holding me close, even though my arms cannot hug her anymore. Cannot touch her ears. I try to wake up, but I need to rest. 

Thank you, my friend, for all our journeys. 

Thank you for all the love. 

Thank you for the music, the nights spent buried under covers, and the days of snow and ice in a foreign land. 

Thank you, old friend, for letting me be yours.