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  • Writer's pictureAlyssa Rodriguez


Wilbur came into my room when I was very young. I can’t even remember if he was a gift from my parents or a friend. But, that doesn’t matter because he’s always there, a steady presence in my unknown world.

Every three years, my backpack was packed, set out on a new adventure with my family of four. With my backpack bouncing between my shoulder blades, I hear the soft “clink, clink” of my piggy bank, snuggled up in my softest sweater. I took great care of Wilbur like he was a golden crown; no thief in the night would dare cross my path.

Now I’m thirty, twenty years have passed, and I just bought a home. I walk through my home, the wood boards creak like an old lady’s knees, but I’m filled with a sense of love as I do to my gran. I walk to my bookcase and reach for a book, and suddenly, a small ache on the left side of my chest makes me stop in my tracks. Someone is missing. I must find him. I hunt through my boxes. Box after box. Until, finally, my hand grabs hold of something hard and a little cold. Out of the box, still full of my coins, is Wilbur, my long-forgotten friend.

I hold him like a newborn babe, careful not to drop him. I set him upon my bookcase, and finally, we have all made it home.

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Nov 09, 2021


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