Every night, I sleep with my pillow.
It was my 15th birthday.
My 9-year-old sister sewed me a pillow.
It was her gift to me.
Every night, I sleep with my pillow.
She drew a red heart on the front of it.
Her miniature fingers worked deftly to draw on the incredibly difficult grey fabric.
Her abundant, pure love for art, paired with her unabashed excitement to gift me the pillow, far outweighed any of her apparent impatience.
Every night, I sleep with my pillow.
Her large deep dark brown eyes and enviably long lashes gleamed with eagerness once done.
"Close your eyes!" She squealed from the other side of her lilac painted room.
The pitter-patter of her petite feet along the fuzzy white rug followed shortly after.
Every night, I sleep with my pillow.
"Open your eyes now!"
I look down at the little pillow in my hands, instantly feigning surprise despite my previous week-long sightings of grey fabric and blue string around the house.
Her anticipatory smile is blinding, dimmed only slightly by the two teeth that I had deviously tricked her into pulling out weeks before.
Every night, I sleep with my pillow.
I quickly pull her small frame into my arms, simultaneously praying her growth spurt kicks in soon, for she is far shorter than her peers.
"Thank you! I love it!" I say as enthusiastically as possible, knowing that hesitation, for a 9-year-old, is the equivalent of essentially explaining in detail how much I dislike the gift.
She struggles to lock her fingers behind my midriff, but that's okay, for the hug is thoroughly more than enough for me.
Every night, I sleep with my pillow.
It has been four years now. / I have had the pillow for four years now.
She calls me on the phone now. / I have had my sister resow the seams of the pillow.
She has hit her growth spurt and has a full set of teeth. / I see faint outlines of stains on the pillow.
Her feet are louder now when she walks. /
I hold the pillow but it's less stiff than before.
And her fingers can easily lock around me in an embrace. / I still sleep with the pillow.
I cannot let go of the pillow at night.
Sometimes, I wake up in a sweat when I realize how desolate my arms feel without it.
I pick it up off the ground, and I clutch it so tightly, hoping that maybe if I hold it close enough, the string holding the pillow together will thread its way into me. Because it seems I can never hold it quite as close as I'd like to. For every night, it seems to slip away a bit more.
But still,
Every night, I sleep with my pillow.
YOU ARE READING
paradoxical
Poetryyears worth of teenage and young adult angst transferred from a ratty old notebook to this app --for anyone who also feels like everything they do contradicts the personality that they desire to be perceived as
