The Bright Blue Friend

My name is Barleyhare Bradfoot and I am not your typical kind of man. This body of mine runs clear like glass, and my eyes, however small they are, reflect starlight. Transparent is my nature, a brilliant blue, and humanlike is my form. But I digress, for this is not by my own hand to thank, but my dear friend, Tommy Wilson’s.

Tommy was but a child in my youth. His wavy red hair and freckled skin produced a high-strung fellow. We met one summer afternoon when his parents brought him to the house yard for a picnic. Every so often, he’d find a stick about twice his size and whack it greatly against the Earth. His mother would holler at him to finish his sandwich, but without much success. Tommy’s father, Mr. Wilson, paid him no mind, voraciously consuming his meal. And I existed merely as a thought in the back of his mind.

By the time the sun had fallen below the horizon, Tommy’s father had fallen into a deep sleep while his mother brought in the scraps.

Thwack! Thwack! Thwack!

Tommy would go with his stick as he relentlessly flailed it about.

Thwack!

He took another step, then three.

Thwack! Thwack!

Four, then five, then ten.

Thwack!

Then, a slip! Oh no! A river of red spilled from his knees. And poor Tommy, all alone in the yard, let out a miserable wail far enough to spook a flock of birds nesting nearby. Then I, hearing his cry, sprouted blissfully from his mind’s eye and settled down by his side. Oh, how somber he looked with those fountain eyes!

Why do you cry little one? I asked him. He tells me of pinpricks and needles! I spread out my arms and held him in a warm embrace. His tears did dry and I found myself in the presence of a bright, young child again!

From then on, we were strung together by bond. He brought forth my good self and I raised him up dearly. Thick as thieves we were, but nobody else saw me, for it was only through his eye I took shape. It was also by this nature we saved princesses from towers, slew skeletons, crafted bows, sailed ships, and rode dragons. And, sometimes when his mother was not looking, we’d dig up the Earth and find treasure troves of liquid gold. How there was so much gold! Then, under the pale white face, when the air was bitter and pricked at our skin, we’d sit by a fire and tell stories under the stars.

We were inseparable, Tommy and I, like a bee to the flower. But nay, the string our bond did snap. For by the grandfather’s hand, a cruel fate befell me! By chance, my body did fade, no longer the brimming blue light in those early days. My little eyes of mine dimmed and the spark was nearly gone. How could it be?

It happened one day on the cusp of dawn in the fourth season of the tenth year. Within the windowsills of a warmly lit café, sat a man donning slacks and coat of fur. Tom is three feet taller. His wavy autumn hair had now formed into a crisp hazel tinge. Three individuals like himself sat beside him. Together, they raised their cups with him, chugging their medicine in blissful unison. I do not recognize Tom.

Sometimes I see him wandering the streets and still call out his name. And sometimes there is an answer, but a feint one it is. No, Tom had his sight on another. For in that café, was one who, in her sway and innocence, had blessed him with a presence of gold. Tom has forgotten me. And I, now but a distant memory, shall fall under heavy drops of slumber.