Snowy

Snowy and Kai met before they came to Hilo. They lived in the cold place together — Snowy on the windowsill, Kai watching the snow with him. When the family packed up to come somewhere warm and new, the rest of the cold place stayed behind. Snowy did not.

Hilo is Kai’s third home. He doesn’t remember the first one. The second one, only a little. The thing he remembers from both of them is Snowy — the small soft thing he held in the moving boxes, in the new room, on the first night his mama tucked him into a bed that didn’t squeak yet.

When the food truck sits quiet and Mama’s smile gets smaller, Snowy is the small soft thing tucked under Kai’s arm. When the kitchen is warm and they’re baking late into the night, Snowy is on the counter watching. When the back step is gold with sunset light, Snowy is in Kai’s lap. He is wherever Kai is.

He has a matted spot on his belly where Kai’s hands rest most often. A black-bead eye sewn back on once. A small mended stitch in his ear. Every kid has a Snowy — the blanket, the bear, the blue dog, the small soft thing that came with you. Kai has Snowy.

“The small soft thing that came with you.”