My specific snake is missing! There are many snakes but specific snake is specifically mine. No other snake will do. This snake was intended for me. . .specifically. Did I mention that she was missing?
This afternoon Specific Snake and I went to the library. Specific Snake is green and snaky with a red forked tongue. She is fun to hold onto and if something or someone scares me she hisses at them and scares them back. When Mommy reads me stories I hold Specific Snake and listen. Specific Snake likes stories.
When I got home I wanted to hear the story about the purple crayon again, so Mommy picked it out of the book bag. That's when I realized that Specific Snake wasn't in the stroller. She wasn't under the couch. She wasn't anywhere on the floor. Specific Snake was no where specific . . . Specific Snake was missing.
Mommy made Specific Snake out of green yarn. She also made snakes of other colors, but Specific Snake is specifically my snake. I can't listen to stories with a non-specific snake. Mommy tried to give me a red snake, then a blue one, and even one that was green, but it wasn't the specific green.
Specific means special. Specific means no one else will do. Specific can't be replaced by just any old snake. Specific snake was specifically mine. Did I mention that she's missing?
We went back to the library (me and Mommy, not me and Specific Snake, she was still missing). The librarian hadn't seen any snakes. She tried to be helpful and offered a book about snakes, but that wasn't what I wanted.
On the way home I looked down at the sidewalk. Maybe I had dropped Specific Snake on the street. But I didn't see her. Maybe some other kid, some non-specific kid, had already found her. Some other kid had my Specific Snake.
Specific means important. Specific means the only one. Like how only one specific key opens the door to our apartment and how I have a specific name and don't answer to any other. Specific means just right. Specific Snake was all that and more.
Mommy says she understands that Specific Snake was special, but maybe we can get something else that is specific at the toy store tomorrow. Maybe a Specific Spider or Salamander. Maybe even a special dinosaur that roars when you press his back or a cuddly teddy bear with soft soft fur. She says we can go first thing in the morning; it's too late today. I try not to be as sad, but I'm still not as happy as I have been before. . .specifically when Specific Snake wasn't missing.
We sit on the couch.
"Are you sure you don't want to read your story?" Mommy asked. "Maybe it will make you feel better." She picks up the book bag and turns it over onto the dining room table. Out falls the book about the crayon and a book on dinosaurs and a stack of non-specific books, and then, from the very bottom of the bag, slips something green and long and specific.
"Specific Snake!" I squeal.
"I wish I'd looked there before we walked all the way to the library," Mommy groans. "Let's read."
Specific Snake is Special, a specific green color like no other snake. Mommy made Specific Snake out of yarn, specifically for me. No other snake will do, and I'm so glad she's not missing.
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