One Halloween, when I was eight or nine, I got this tiny live black cat in my candy bag. Named him Halloween, obviously. I loved him fierce—carried him everywhere, even down those crazy ravines in our desert neighborhood. One day, poof, he’s gone. I searched high and low, yelling ‘Halloween!’ till my throat hurt. Fifty years later, Mom finally spilled the beans. Turns out, my little brother thought it’d be hilarious to vacuum him up. She buried what was left in the backyard to keep me from falling apart. why does this prompt bring back that memory?

Because it wasn’t just a toy. It was the first time I realized things… people… disappear. and sometimes the things we love just… fade. And yet we hold on to every second of them.

He was important to me. Doesn’t matter if he was stuffed or real—attachment doesn’t come with rules.