When I was about two my grandmother took away my favorite toy, a small stuffed tiger as she wanted a souvenir. And that was that. There’s a baby picture of me playing with it, but the tiger was gone. Then, grandma had to go away to a home. At some point, presumably when they took that dreadful woman away, the tiger must’ve returned. But no one bothered to tell me. My mom never said a word about it. Then she died. So, last week when my dad died, I was going through a chest of drawers. Underneath some bedding was Bookey. I hadn’t seen him for 60 years and he’d been sitting in a drawer two miles from my house. Bookey is back at my house now.