A Shift in Society

3 | Mr. Iggy and Co.

I triple check my suitcase early in the morning to make sure I have everything.

Toothbrush? Check. Toothpaste? Check. Hairbrush? Check. Phone charger? Check. Extra pair of socks? Check. Undergarments? Check. Deodorant? Check. Good luck charm? Uh-oh. 

I frantically search for my good luck charm bottle with the four-leaf clover pendant attached to it by a piece of fabric. 

It's 7 in the damn morning, come on, where is it?

The hair in my messy bun begins to escape the clutches of my ponytail and whisps every which way. My eyes search desperately for the little bottle of luck I've had ever since I was a little girl. As the minutes tick by, I can feel my heart begin to pound in my chest, a constant reminder of the precious object that I am failing to keep safe as I promised. 

Please, please, please be around here somewhere. I can't lose you now!

I search underneath my bed and in between the bedsheets. A stuffed donkey falls on the floor, but I ignore it, too occupied with the lucky charm that was nowhere to be seen. I pick up pillows and search inside my pillowcases until my hand grasps a familiar cylindrical, clear plastic bottle with green dust inside of it. 

Thank the Heavens! I found it! Should have known I hid it here.

I put the bottle of luck into my suitcase's hidden pocket. After making sure it's well hidden, I bury the secret pocket opening with clothes and other essentials.

I can't believe I forgot where I hid my own lucky charm. That's pretty sad . . .

With an exhale of defeat, I finish up packing my suitcase and zip it up. I lean it up against the wall next to my door and put my favorite small blanket on top of it. The blanket falls off of my suitcase in spite of my efforts to balance it on top of my suitcase.

"Fine. Then stay on the floor," I murmur aloud childishly, irritated by the fact that not even a blanket will allow me to have something go right. After sticking my tongue out to the blanket, or the world for all I know, I sit down on my bed and sigh for what feels like the millionth time today, even though the clock on my dresser shows that it's only 7:30 in the morning. 

I lift up the old, battered stuffed donkey that fell on the floor when I was searching for my lucky charm. The donkey wears a red bandana around its neck. Its light brown fur is rough and knotted. The ear on the right side of its head is slowly ripping at the seams. The donkey has many line marks on its body from being sewed together a multitude of times. Beads are slowly coming out of its head.

It doesn't matter how many times I sew the donkey back together. A new tear will be made or an old one will reopen again. 

I stare at the worn-out dusty donkey. While stroking its weathered body, I murmur quietly, "You know, Mr. Iggy, you remind me a lot about, well, me. Sounds depressing, huh? It probably is. I mean, I'm talking to a damn stuffed animal! Pretty whack, huh?" 

Before I know it, tears begin to brim my eyes. My hysterical mood fades. Replacing it is sour bitterness. As I stare into the donkey's eyes, I can't help but remember the broken promise the donkey stands for. A promise someone I once closely cherished broke when I needed that promise the most . . .

"Here, Mija, I got you a present today. It's a burro, see? A donkey" said my dad to six-year-old me. His smile glistened in the sunlight. He was kneeling down in front of me at the Pretty Lake park. My dad's hair was neatly combed back and he was still wearing his suit and tie from work. At the time, he was only a paralegal, but close to becoming an attorney like he always wanted.