Put It On A Table.

     Almost everyone as a child has some sort of toy that was labeled as their best friend forever. Something as powerful as a superman action figure or as fluffy as a stuffed teddy bear could fight off the monsters in the dark, and it was never, under any circumstances, left at home. Of course, I had my own best friend.  But instead of it being some stylish blonde Barbie, mine was a square feather pillow.
     Throughout my entire childhood my pillow never left my side. To be 100% honest, I still sleep with it every night. Yeah, I'm a big baby child at heart. As I grew up the reason my pillow was never shoved in an old storage box and put in the attic wasn't because I was still scared of the dark, but because it was part of my life. Having it has become a habit and I've simply grown used to seeing it. Some days my pillow brings forth no emotion from me. Other times, when I'm tired and dragging myself to my bed, I see it and I'm immediately comforted. When someone goes on vacation for a long period of time, they long for the feeling of being back in their own bed. For me, as long as I have my pillow it is if I am in my very own bed. It makes me think of home and several of my best childhood memories.

     When I was a four year child my grandmother from my father's side, Mama Lena, created my life-long pal. Shortly after one of my father's duck hunting trips, Mama Lena carefully sewed a pillow case and filled it with genuine duck feathers. At the time she had no idea the impact this pillow would have on my life. A year later my parents divorced. Traveling back and forth between my mother's house and my father's was even more difficult to do when I only had one  pillow. Carrying my pillow to each house with me became such a hassle that my grandmother eventually had to make a second identical one. Although that particular problem had been easily solved, there were still many problems that were not solved so smoothly such as leaving my pillow at hotels and not realizing this tragedy until my family had traveled half way home. Luckily, my pillow was always recovered and returned to me safe and sound.  Other than the time of my parents divorce, my pillow was also a comfort object when I went through otoplasty ear surgery in second grade. My pillow was there for me like a friend who is always there by your side.

     My pillow is definitely nothing special. At first glance, I see a standard size cream colored pillow case full of flattened 12 year old duck feathers. It is lumpy, deflated, and wrinkly. The musty smell of McDonald's pancake syrup caused by many Saturday morning at home breakfasts is so strong you can almost taste it. (Olivia Jamieson has always called it my syrup pillow.) When I grab my pillow it feels chilly at first, but quickly warms up to body temperature, and the thin, warn out cotton case makes a quiet rustle.

      As I think back on the connections I make with my pillow, I realize they are extremely comforting and joyful. There is an overwhelming number of times that I have cried on, slept with, and shared fun times with. It is and always will be my most cherished childhood possession.