There’s an 18-year-old soft toy – Dumbo, the flying elephant – in my life. Also in my life is a little boy who was born two months after the soft toy came to me. A not-so-little boy who’s soon turning 18.
The soft toy and the boy are intertwined in my mind because on a Skype call in 2010, the little boy saw the soft toy on my bed. He took off with his little legs to another room for a few seconds, and came back to show me a smaller version of it.
A few months later, on my way to visit him from a different city, I went in and out of multiple toy stores to find my bigger version of the soft toy to gift this little boy. Tired of going to random places, I began calling shops to check if they stocked the toy. I finally found it in a location far from where I lived or worked. But it was there.
The little boy eventually had three versions of the soft toy – big, medium, small.
The little boy – my nephew – soon became a big brother. He grew up. His voice broke. He’s taller than everyone else in the family. He speaks slowly, softly, thinking his words through before saying them. He has soft fuzz on his face, the beginnings of a moustache.
My heart swells with pride and joy watching him grow. My heart also beats with worry when confronting the immense competition he faces in his desired fields of study. My heart also quiets it all down by saying that things will go well.
The 18-year-old Dumbo sits on my bed during the day and hits the floor at night. Its little yellow hat hangs on to its head by a few threads, and the red cuff around its neck has lost its elasticity. But its eyes still radiate joy, and every now and then when I pick it up, I’m smiling within seconds. Because there was once a little boy who was thrilled to bits to see a bigger version of his own toy on a video call.