Let me tell you about my very own pillow. It sits at the top of my bed near my book and waits for me all day long until I come back at night. It doesn’t move. It doesn’t complain or worry. It just waits until I show up in whatever state I’m in. Whether I’m delighted or filled with anxiety, even when I’m pressed flat with stress wondering why bad times have chosen me, my pillow is there waiting for me. It’s soft. It’s comforting. It’s mine alone. It’s the epitome of all I call home.
When I’ve been gone for days on end. My head can’t wait to make contact with my pillow again.
It’s an attachment I allow myself. Home isn’t where I hang my hat. It’s where I keep my pillow.