I wrap my arms around the pillow; I embrace it. I hold on to it, and my fingers gradually curl into a claw-like shape, clenching onto the cloth with an icy grip. I hold this cushion as thought it were the only thing left on earth that I could ever cherish or own. The fraying purple ties that I had so neatly knotted together when I was no older than 6 years old still remain untied.
The faded yellow purple and pink flower designs bring back images of lake houses and birthday candles. Every summer has been tradition for my family (along with our cousins and grandparents) to rent out a lake house in the finger lakes in upstate New York. We’d all get out our fishing rods, sit by the dock, and just wait. We’d wait for the fish to bite and for our parents to call us back inside. But there’s always been this kind of constant waiting in my life, for something bigger, something new. As we watched the green water ripple and turn, I would lose myself to my own thoughts. But as the pillow I now clasp tears apart, my life remains still and unchanged. This presence of waiting remains.
When I look down at my hands, I can see red blisters and purple scabs from tripping on sidewalks and playing tag with my two sisters. I can see the small joys and hardships that have collected overtime to make up the entirety of my youth, an ongoing treasury of innocent stories.
I don’t sleep with this pillow anymore. It hasn’t felt my head on its cheap felt material for a painfully long amount of time. Instead, I sleep on blank pillows with white covers, and blankets and sheets that match. My shoes no longer light up at the bottom when I stamp my feet. My nails aren’t covered in scratched up green and purple shades of overused nail polishes. Everything is new. And everything has changed.
But still, I hold this souvenir from a journey that we call youth, and wait for this trip to end.
Oddity of an Odyssey 