Pillow Talk
That pillow on his side of the bed is a redundant objet d’art. It is lying in some passive state with a pretty sham and no head to go on it. I’m big on pillows and nice bedding even if I get it at some fabulous sale for mere dollars, which makes it even lovelier to me. A sale is to be sought when quality is to be bought.
I’ve noticed that when I’m not at home, my kids sleep on my bed. I was away on an overnight business trip last week and my 15 year old must have slept on my bed, because his cell phone cord was plugged in behind my bedside table, his book was beside it on the floor and my mattress was moved half way off the frame. A rough night maybe. I also notice that when they crash on my bed when I’m away, they stay off their dad’s side. This is a reverse trend to their ancient ritual of resting on his side.
I’m not sure if they are paying homage to his absence, refusing to mar the shrine of his memory, but they are obviously absent to his side, as is he.
That pillow though – I tend to fight with its position when I’m trying to get comfortable at night since becoming a widow. If I leave it alone, it has no intended use except to help the bed avoid looking like a mastectomy without the fitted bra, like my grandmother who refused till her dying day to replace her absent breast with something to balance out the dress.
So I punch the pillow around and scrunch it into some fortified bastion against the blackness around me, and when I have time to make my bed, it goes back into its rightful but useless place, just another pretty face.
