Pillow

The pillow.

It looked disgusting. Yellowed and rotting with sweat, drool, and tears. The remains of a fitted stocking ripping off the strange foam core. “It’s for you. You love this pillow.”

I was overjoyed. I loved him.

His entire bed was “Tempurpedic.” When we lay next to each other we each melted into perfect molds of ourselves, resting in our own body heat and window cool. On a small mattress we managed to sleep in peaceful shrimp curls, knees against calves, nose to spine, pillow shared. The mysterious ticking in his ceiling persisted. A pipe? A mouse?

Pillow—now mine.

Hair

Locks flowing and growing into a mane of silk of sheep fur of nest of bark of tree of mess and tangle.

Learning to care for the strands that fought with the comb in the lady’s hands, that resisted the the curious fingers, that refused to lie tame or flat in mist—my first personal responsibility.

Carefree and weightless before adolescence, I could swing from my knees and cut angles through the tide with my sharp cartwheels. And then I had to attack the dread lock.

I envied the glistening smooth heads of girls, smelling like laundry soap, with easy hair.

Green

We each had to take one vial. Inside, a green liquid jiggled and an eerie light shone through.

“Do not drink until you are told,” a voice announced in a monotone.

Around us, four corners revealed four musicians, frozen and ready.

“You may drink now,” the same voice said.

I hesitated and looked at Kyle to see if he would drink neon green out of a test tube. We each tilted back the contents. A sweet, spicy, and intoxicating jolt of sour filled my head. I looked at the audience, doe-eyed, blinking. We peered over the banister. The show began.