Nothing to Fix: A Capybara Story About Friendship

Bara wakes up with three ideas. Always.

Capybaras have wide, flat backs. Birds climb on, and even little monkeys, and they ride around up there, perfectly calm.

And capybaras are never in a hurry. They spend the day lying in the sun or sitting in the water.

Bara is not that capybara.

Bara has a short body. Nobody fits on a short body.

And besides, Bara never stops. Anything that climbs on falls off or goes flying the moment Bara starts running or leaping around like a goat.

So nobody ever climbs on Bara.

And since Bara can't carry anybody, Bara fixes things.

When something sounds wrong, Bara goes for the tape and the box of screws. “I can fix that,” says Bara. And Bara fixes it.

That's why everybody calls Bara when something breaks. And that's why Bara almost never sits down.

But when nothing is broken, nobody calls Bara.

On one ear, Bara wears a tag with a number on it: 02. The people at the lab put it there.

Bara thinks the tag is a prize.

And Bara thinks the lab studies Bara because Bara is the only capybara who can't sit still.

Not quite. At the lab, they test shampoos and hair creams. That's why Bara always comes back smelling like strawberries, with fur sticking straight up.

Bara's only friend is Capy. Capy IS that capybara: big, calm, with a back where everybody fits.

Today Capy is sitting on her front step and won't move.

Tomorrow they're coming for Bara. Back to the lab, for a long time. Nobody has said how long.

Bara knows. There has been a knot in Bara's tummy since last night.

But Bara doesn't sit down and feel things. Bara goes for the tape.

Bara sits down next to Capy and asks what's wrong.

“I don't want you to go,” says Capy. And a tear comes out, very quietly.

Bara jumps up right away.

“I'll tell you a joke.” And Bara tells the best joke there is. The one about the duck. Capy doesn't laugh.

“I'll build you a fort.” And Bara builds a fort out of two chairs and a sheet, with a door and a window. Capy looks at it and stays exactly the same.

“I'll make you a calendar, so you can count the days until I'm back.” Bara runs for paper and a pencil. And stops with the pencil in the air, because nobody knows how many days Bara will be at the lab.

Bara works all afternoon. Brings the ball. Brings the cards. Brings the dinosaur that makes noise.

And while Bara works, Bara's hands shake a little.

Because Bara knows something Bara doesn't want to know: the moment the doing and the moving stop, Bara's heart is going to hurt. Because then Bara will remember how much Bara is going to miss a best friend. The only one.

When it's all done, Bara turns around, out of steam.

And Capy is still sitting on the step, exactly the same, head down and sad.

Bara's shoulders drop. There's nothing left to try.

Nothing is broken. There is nothing to fix.

Nobody can put tape on a goodbye.

So Bara does the hardest thing Bara has ever done.

Bara sits down on the step, next to Capy. And does nothing.

No tape. No screws. No “I can fix that.”

Bara just stays there, quiet, looking at the street with her. And lets it hurt.

A long time goes by. The sun goes down and the street lights come on.

And Capy, without a word, lowers herself a little, the way she always does, so Bara can climb onto her back.

Bara climbs up. And up there, for the first time all day, Bara holds still.

“This,” says Capy. “This is what I needed.”

Then Bara remembers something. Behind the step there's a flowerpot, hidden. Bara put it there this morning, out of embarrassment.

It's a cactus. Bara brought him out of the lab.

At the lab they wanted to make cactuses with no spikes, so they would be easier to keep at home.

But spikes aren't there for nothing. A cactus's spikes are its leaves. They keep away the animals that want to eat it, and they make a little shade under the desert sun.

What the lab got was this one: bald, with spikes on just one branch. And on that branch, little apples grow.

Bara spent all week trying to fix him. Stuck spikes on with extra-strong glue, and they fell off. Picked the apples off, and new ones grew.

Bara climbs down from Capy's back and holds out the pot, looking at the ground.

At the lab they put him off in a corner, because he came out wrong.

“He's ugly,” Bara says, very softly. “And I couldn't fix him.”

Capy looks at him.

And Capy loves him from that very moment. Just the way he is: bald, with his one prickly branch and his little apples.

“There's nothing to fix,” says Capy. “His name is Pincho. For his one prickly branch.”

And Capy hugs him, spikes and all.

Bara doesn't say anything. But Bara understands something nobody has to explain.

That's why Capy is Bara's only friend. Because Capy loves everybody just the way they are.

A bald cactus. A capybara who can't sit still.

The next morning, very early, they come for Bara.

Capy sits on the step with Pincho on her head. And she waits.

She doesn't know how many days. But she knows Bara is going to come back.

Bara didn't fix anything. Not Capy, not Pincho, not Bara.

There was nothing to fix.

What Capy and Bara needed wasn't a joke, or a fort, or a calendar.

It was to keep each other company. In silence, on the same step.

The moral

Being there in silence when there's nothing to fix, and loving everybody just the way they are.

Meet them

Capy and Bara have pages of their own: Capy and Bara. Which one are you? Take the quiz.