Charlie

Charlie arrived in a cardboard box from the shelter with a note that just said “independent.” That was underselling it. Charlie was a CEO in a tiny tuxedo. He had opinions about everything: the brand of food, the temperature of the apartment, the people I dated.

He slept on my chest every single night for nine years. When I was sad he’d sit on the exact book I was trying to read, which I choose to interpret as emotional support.

I keep him on my desk now, in a crystal that catches the afternoon sun. Every day around four o’clock the light hits the crystal and he lights up — the same warm orange as the hour he used to climb into my lap.