Turtle

I slept with Turtle every night (with a few dramatic exceptions) until I was way too old for such things. Each of my grandmothers, and even my great-grandmother, has stitched his neck where I wore it out from carrying him around by the gullet. He accompanied me to Sweden, Spain, France, England, Italy, Ireland, Scotland, Ecuador, and Peru. Maybe more. Once I accidentally left him in the folds of a dingy comforter at South of The Border on the way home from a road trip to Disney World. (One of said dramatic exceptions.) I called the hotel as soon as I realized and begged them to mail him to me, saying it was for my kid. I was twenty-two. When he went with me to the Galapagos a few years later I contemplated setting him free with his wild turtle friends but couldn't for sentimental and environmental reasons.

Sometime in my mid-twenties Turtle disappeared and I didn't see him again until I was packing to move here. He was between plastic storage bins on the enclosed back porch. Dusty, but not resentful. I never doubted that he'd come along.

Now he belongs to Bine. She says he's a girl and that his name is Tuga (short for tortuga, which is the Spanish word for turtle and a character on a children's program that Bine is OBSESSED with). His neck isn't long for this world; there hasn't been stuffing in it since I was around twelve but now you can see straight through the fragile, papery cloth. He's old and he's spending his afternoons with a two-year-old who has reassigned his gender, but he's happy.