Pillow Talk

When I was growing up a pillow was a human beings most noted possession.

They always wore a nice dress, pillows that is.

My mother embroidered and taught us to embroider

silk flowers on their face, like people they wear masks.

My sister's pillow case matched mine, my moms' matched my father's,

that's how we knew they were married, and we,

my sister and I, have been married ever since.

In my family we carried everything we owned in one pillow.

If it fit inside the pillow it was yours, it it didn't it was someone elses.

Pillows have many compartments and many smells.

By inspecting their corners you know their personalities:

Jean stuffed braveheart pillows,

soft, tender, feminine side pillows,

coffee dregs, grouchy pillows,

cushion memory pillows,

stomach aching pepto bismol pillows,

accident prone, sybil pillows,

puppet draining pillows,

tooth decay, hospital linen pillows,

among many.

My mother never washed the side of her pillow my grandmother layed on

every year, before we left her for nine months.

What we remember about my grandma is still the memory of a ten month odor.

My mothers house is a pillow factory or better yet, a pillow designers nightmare.

Pillows born there, don't have names or ideas or even corners.

They have a strong conviction and a distinct identity,

they know they'll end up meeting an owner.

I asked my mother why she made so many pillows and had none.

She said to me: "I'm priviledged, but if I weren't, the only thing I'd like to own is a pillow. My pillows are like a computer that saves dreams for others to sleep with".