Best of Friends

I remember the day Laura brought her new son home for the first time. I was excited. I knew I'd recall it as the most important day of my life. After much debate, we decided he should be named Hampton, a family name, though I always called him Hamp when his mom wasn't hovering nearby. Her face shone with such pride in the little guy. She held him so tight that I worried she might crush him. I wondered whether she knew the proper way to carry him.

           "Be sure to support him from his bottom so you won't drop him.

          "Don't hold him too tight, or you might squeeze the life out of him."

She wouldn't surrender him to anyone else's hugs and affection. I could hardly catch a glimpse of him, wrapped as he was in his swaddling clothes. He seemed so small, wrinkled, and wiggly when she let me see him. When I looked carefully at him, he didn't look like me at all; he appeared so—well, ugly. But I knew he had to be mine. I felt confident he'd grow out of it, that eventually, he'd become handsome like me.

Hamp slept most of the time—actually, he mostly dozed, cried, and pooped. At night he lay next to his mom in bed. At first, Laura wouldn't let me sleep next to them. I sat in a recliner chair across the room and watched them as they slept. I feared Laura let him sleep too close; she might roll over and suffocate him. She never did. As a new mother, she must have had a natural maternal instinct on how to care for her baby.

Later, when I was allowed in their bed, Hamp reached out, touched me, cooed, and cuddled me. The thought of him caressing me—loving me—sent chills down my back. He had accepted me. And soon, he learned to say my name, Herman.

As he got older, Laura began reading him stories, mostly fairy tales, from a hardbound book with detailed line drawings illustrating the story's characters—knights, princes, princesses, and dragons. At first, Hamp enjoyed looking at the pictures with wide-eyed fascination. He pressed his hand against the colored forms and giggled as he traced the drawings with his tiny fingers. Eventually, he took crayons and scribbled on the books to improve the artists' work, the results annoying his mom. Still, she accepted his need to express himself, and over the years, she collected many more illustrated books for Hamp, books with colorful renderings of kings and castles, pirates, and pirate ships. I sat with him for hours explaining the art, helping him sound out the various letters, and how to string the letters into words. He learned to read, love words and stories, and appreciate art as he leafed through those books. Hamp and I became the best and closest of friends.

Since Hamp was short and chubby, he became an attractive target for bullies. In elementary school, he frequently needed me to soothe the physical and emotional wounds he received at school. At night when Hamp was upset or frustrated, he could punch me in the arm to relieve the stress; when he was lonely or feeling rejected, we could hug each other tight, and he would feel accepted and secure.

Even as he aged, he'd come home and hug me—anxious or lonely. When he was in the seventh grade, he came home especially upset. There was a dance at school. His first childhood crush had been on a black-haired girl named Barbara. He thought she was beautiful, though he was confused why he considered any girl attractive at that age. He idolized her and sat staring at her at every opportunity during class. He asked Barbara to dance with him that day, and she agreed. Holding her hand and putting his arm around her waist gave him an unfamiliar tingling feeling.

Then some of the bullies interrupted them. They taunted Barbara, "You shouldn't dance with that ugly, fat boy."

She stopped dancing with Hamp at once. That day he came home humiliated—broken-hearted. He came to me, tears streaming down each cheek and his eyes puffy and red. As always, I was there to comfort him. I tried to convince him that he'd make other female friends. I wasn't much help since the only female I had been close to was Laura, his mom. But I did convince him that most of his life lay ahead of him, and things would get better.

           Then came the fights in high school. Hamp had to learn to face aggression: avoid it somehow, fight his way out of the trouble, or run from it. I recommended that he learn to avoid conflict altogether; I had no idea how to advise him how to fight. He'd come home bruised mentally and physically regardless of which path he chose. He needed me most then, and I was happy I could help him deal with life’s pains and bruises.

           After Hamp left to go to college, he didn't come home at night anymore. He decided to go into art and writing—the fine arts. I like to think the time I spent with him and those beautiful books had a lot to do with his decision for his future.

I haven't seen him in such a long time since he went away to college. At night I sit on a chair in his bedroom and wait for him to return. I am lonely. He must not need me as much anymore.

After a while, Laura decided to redecorate Hamp's bedroom. She placed what remained of me in a cardboard box that went into a dark closet. I guess I'm lucky. Though Laura sewed and mended me many times over the years, I lost most of my stuffing. I was afraid she was going to discard me with the trash.

So, I'll sit here waiting patiently until Hamp returns for me. I'm sure he'll come home soon and take me with him when he leaves. I know he still needs me. After all, we're still best of friends, aren't we?

                                                           END