It’s
pretty official. After all, we’re talking about a seven-year long relationship
that has been consistently growing stronger with each passing night. I sold
half of my pillow space without much persuasion, feeling that it is only the
right thing to do for my sleep buddy. No gender, no name, no pulsing heart; but
its mere presence strikes melodious lullaby to my ears. What I found myself
looking forward to after a rough day outside is some cuddling time with my
bolster. And often times it takes me to places, people and adventures I never
possibly could have these days. I probably shouldn’t spare it too much
attention for its innards have been shifting to polar opposites, and for that
it has gotten more capable of doing the whole touch-your-toe regime. Despite the stress of material aging and
rough-housing, it continually stays in place as though it too may have deemed
that it is the right thing to do. Barely holding on to fabric, thread by
thread, it watched with silent eyes as I pace back and forth in my tiny studio
bedroom, sometimes in anger, sometimes in tears. It identified with its owner,
her bipolar-like swings from stress of chasing deadlines and trying to meet
expectations, yet loyal to the program and life goals. Take with you this idea
if you will, that these two stubborn existences will see that their time in
Baltimore end on a good note, one that perhaps promises many more nights of
serenity, preferably on a softer pillow.
Cotton
wool,
Vonnie S.
Vonnie S.
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