Calvin's eyes where shaded against the sun as he stood at the old bus stop.
It had been years since he had last taken in the smells, the feeling of
home. Calvin was twenty-one-years-old, and finally, for the first time in
so long, he returned to his old neighborhood.
The rope up to his treehouse had fallen, he noted, walking through the old, dead backyard. He smiled gently to himself as he scuffed his feet in the dirt, and kicking up a submerged stone. "Fifteenth base," he said to himself, a small smile crossing his pale features.
Calvin sat by the creek just in the back, his back against an old oak tree as he absently threw pebbles into the swirling water. He and Hobbes used to come down here all the time. Come to think of it, Calvin noted, he had never done anything without his best friend, Hobbes.
But time had passed, and Calvin had made real friends. Hobbes usually lay forgotten under the bed, or in the closet. Calvin had let go of his best friend.
"Hobbes was only a stuffed tiger," Calvin said with a sigh, and then he grinned wickedly. "Oh, but what fun we used to have..." He watched the water at his feet trickle for a few long moments, and then he stood, brushing grass and dirt from his pant legs.
Somehow, his legs carried him to the front door of the old, abandoned suburb home that once was his. The window at the very top was his window. The panes where now shattered, and the sill broken. Calvin was deaf to the clunk of his sneakers on the hardwood as he made his way up the front porch steps and through the door.
Memories flooded into his mind as he ran his fingers over the banister of the staircase, and then glanced to the door again. Hobbes usually tackled him with a running leap every day after Calvin would arrive home from school.
Calvin shook his head with a smile, and then he peered upward, his eyes tracing each stair, and his legs following the motion until he stood before the door of his old bedroom. The bedroom of his youth.
So many nights where had here, where Calvin and Hobbes would chase monsters from the closet, or the drawers, or never tire of the same old bedtime story night after night. Calvin blinked back tears as he remembered his father, old and constantly annoyed was he, but Calvin never minded. He was dad. Calvin's dad.
His hand shook as he reached for the handle, and he jerked the door open. There, his room lay, untouched, but covered in dust and dirt. Calvin knelt, picking up a tattered old baseball which lay on the floor. He tossed it into the air and chuckled, reaching for the titanium bat which was carelessly leaned against the desk.
He swong the childhood relic about in his callussed hands with a reckless smile, swinging it, as if to practice, and opening his eyes slowly, as if to watch the progress of an imaginary ball, and celebrating his victory swallowed by the cheers of thousands of imaginary fans.
And there, on the bed, was Hobbes.
Calvin smiled sadly, dropping the bat to the old, dirtied floor, and sitting down heavily on the old bed that little six-year-old him once slept in, his faithful companion, Hobbes, at his side, always. His fingers extended slowly, brushing the fur of the tiger's head.
Hobbes was so worn and loved, Calvin noted. He sighed, grasping the old toy and holding it to his chest in a deep, and sorrowful hug. Everything was so different, now. Not simple like they used to be when he was little...when his greatest worry was that night's math homework.
"Hello, old friend." he whispered, running a hand over Hobbes' glass button eyes. He smiled again. "Let's go home, Hobbes," Calvin muttered, and he walked with the stuffed tiger to the door.
He'll never speak for me again, Calvin thought sadly. I'm too old, now. Peering back down at the old tiger, he could have sworn he saw him wink.
Together once more, a boy and his best friend left the old suburban house that day...Calvin and Hobbes.
The rope up to his treehouse had fallen, he noted, walking through the old, dead backyard. He smiled gently to himself as he scuffed his feet in the dirt, and kicking up a submerged stone. "Fifteenth base," he said to himself, a small smile crossing his pale features.
Calvin sat by the creek just in the back, his back against an old oak tree as he absently threw pebbles into the swirling water. He and Hobbes used to come down here all the time. Come to think of it, Calvin noted, he had never done anything without his best friend, Hobbes.
But time had passed, and Calvin had made real friends. Hobbes usually lay forgotten under the bed, or in the closet. Calvin had let go of his best friend.
"Hobbes was only a stuffed tiger," Calvin said with a sigh, and then he grinned wickedly. "Oh, but what fun we used to have..." He watched the water at his feet trickle for a few long moments, and then he stood, brushing grass and dirt from his pant legs.
Somehow, his legs carried him to the front door of the old, abandoned suburb home that once was his. The window at the very top was his window. The panes where now shattered, and the sill broken. Calvin was deaf to the clunk of his sneakers on the hardwood as he made his way up the front porch steps and through the door.
Memories flooded into his mind as he ran his fingers over the banister of the staircase, and then glanced to the door again. Hobbes usually tackled him with a running leap every day after Calvin would arrive home from school.
Calvin shook his head with a smile, and then he peered upward, his eyes tracing each stair, and his legs following the motion until he stood before the door of his old bedroom. The bedroom of his youth.
So many nights where had here, where Calvin and Hobbes would chase monsters from the closet, or the drawers, or never tire of the same old bedtime story night after night. Calvin blinked back tears as he remembered his father, old and constantly annoyed was he, but Calvin never minded. He was dad. Calvin's dad.
His hand shook as he reached for the handle, and he jerked the door open. There, his room lay, untouched, but covered in dust and dirt. Calvin knelt, picking up a tattered old baseball which lay on the floor. He tossed it into the air and chuckled, reaching for the titanium bat which was carelessly leaned against the desk.
He swong the childhood relic about in his callussed hands with a reckless smile, swinging it, as if to practice, and opening his eyes slowly, as if to watch the progress of an imaginary ball, and celebrating his victory swallowed by the cheers of thousands of imaginary fans.
And there, on the bed, was Hobbes.
Calvin smiled sadly, dropping the bat to the old, dirtied floor, and sitting down heavily on the old bed that little six-year-old him once slept in, his faithful companion, Hobbes, at his side, always. His fingers extended slowly, brushing the fur of the tiger's head.
Hobbes was so worn and loved, Calvin noted. He sighed, grasping the old toy and holding it to his chest in a deep, and sorrowful hug. Everything was so different, now. Not simple like they used to be when he was little...when his greatest worry was that night's math homework.
"Hello, old friend." he whispered, running a hand over Hobbes' glass button eyes. He smiled again. "Let's go home, Hobbes," Calvin muttered, and he walked with the stuffed tiger to the door.
He'll never speak for me again, Calvin thought sadly. I'm too old, now. Peering back down at the old tiger, he could have sworn he saw him wink.
Together once more, a boy and his best friend left the old suburban house that day...Calvin and Hobbes.