Favorite Pillow

Hands outstretched with the wind rushing against her skin until she had to close her eyes, she felt like she was flying.

Every time he touched her.

The first conversation they had, she wondered if it were a dream or premonition. Something big was coming, or something very, very bad. Like an omen. It wasn’t because of the scope of the dialogue, nor the course of events that followed up to it, but instead, it was a conversation which had happened before with the same exact person. It didn’t matter that she knew it was from a different lifetime.

She couldn’t believe the first time he kissed her. Never in all her life had she felt so much fear. Never in all her life had she been so afraid that at any moment, she would wake up and he would be nothing but an aftertaste of sleep that disappears within seconds.

When he held her, she couldn’t understand why they fit so perfectly, when the rest of the world was complaining about how imperfect everyone was in a world equally imperfect. Perfection was holding her tight.

Lifted up to pale pink clouds higher and higher until it came to the point where she could rise no more. Slowly, (and in her forethought painfully) sinking down, yet she had somehow halted like a forgiven Angel, once Fallen. Before the fall he placed his hand gently around her face and she remembered that she could never fall with something as simple as his touch. And she woke from her heavens and heights looking straight into his eyes.

61 years later when one day he ceased to wake up, she placed her hand around his cold face and a tear escaped until it reached the red cotton pillow which had always been his favorite.