We were browsing through a bedding shop when I noticed the goose down pillows. They were plump and pliant and stupidly expensive. Extravagant more than generous I bought one for Mottsu. I loved that pillow, it was a spontaneous gift. I loved him.
We christened it the ‘super pillow’, luxurious and better than the average pillow. It was a gift for him and over time it was mostly me who appreciated sleeping on the super-pillow.
The week Mottsu started his journal I was in New Zealand working. My Saturday flight home was delayed for more than 8 hours due to rain in Auckland.
I spent the afternoon and evening in the airline lounge. Mottsu was updated about my lack of progress home by phone. I wouldn’t be home for dinner, I would be lucky to be home that day. I looked forward to eating and sleeping on the plane. The longer I was delayed the more home was beckoned. When it finally departed, the flight was terrible, through storms, and circumstances dictated that the flight was un-catered. I arrived home after mid-night hungry, grumpy.
He was asleep, I didn’t know he hadn’t been sleeping. I muttered away to myself and got ready for bed, and noticed his was head was resting on the super pillow. Annoyed I ripped ‘my’ pillow (the one I had bought for him) from under his head and flounced onto the mattress. Feeling unappreciated I made my point vengefully. Petty, I didn’t know he’d been to consult a psychologist that week.
I grabbed the goose down treasure and yanked, without thinking. I ripped the pillow from under his head.
If I could turn back time, I would have left the super pillow under his resting head and I would have recommended reading an author other than Cormac McCarthy.
Non, je ne regrette rien, I am vaguely haunted by the guilt of the damn super pillow and the gloomy book …