When I was a kid, my family went to the same place every year for Christmas trees. They sold trees and a variety of statues. Every year, I would let my family pick the tree, while I played with the statues. They had many deer statues; I gave them names, pet them, and created stories about them. They were my friends that I only got to see once a year. We went to a different Christmas tree place when I was eleven, but by then I was growing out of my childlike imagination. I had stopped playing with my stuffed animals. We went back two years later, when I was thirteen. By that time, I was in my last year of middle school, and I missed my sense of wonder – middle school is a terrible place. I found that the statues I had instilled my imagination in years before still held that personification. The same goes for my stuffed animals from when I was a child; they possess a semblance of the character I once gave them. I have never given a car a name, or any stuffed animals I have been given after the age of ten. However, though the feelings have been diluted through my teenage years of cynicism, my favorite stuffed animals still retain what I gave them long ago – something only a child’s imagination could accomplish. In this way, I am sure my statues still think about me, too.