BJ lost his crayons and found his new daddy.

I collect crayons. Not just any crayons, either. I collect retired colors, violet-blue being my favorite. They remind me of myself—once loved and cherished and now long forgotten. Only I refuse to let them be, either. Instead, I dig through every yard sale and thrift store box of random colors, hoping to find one.

Moving into my new apartment is stressful enough without discovering a box is missing, the one containing my prized collection. I call the moving company, my old landlord, and my new building manager. None of them have seen it....

BJ lost his crayons and found his new daddy.

I collect crayons. Not just any crayons, either. I collect retired colors, violet-blue being my favorite. They remind me of myself—once loved and cherished and now long forgotten. Only I refuse to let them be, either. Instead, I dig through every yard sale and thrift store box of random colors, hoping to find one.

Moving into my new apartment is stressful enough without discovering a box is missing, the one containing my prized collection. I call the moving company, my old landlord, and my new building manager. None of them have seen it. They are gone. As a last-ditch effort, I post on the local community social media pages in the hopes that someone has seen it.

When someone replies they have, it’s all I can do not to say, “Thank you, Daddy.”