ode to feathers

I have a pillow that I’ve had since I was little.

It’s filled with down feathers and its white and blue ticking has seen better days. I used to come home to visit and spend a while searching the house to find “my” pillow to sleep on. At one point, it was gifted to my brother while he was living on his own, and I traced it back to him and bought him two new pillows to finally call the pillow my property for good.
I’ve slept on it ever since. Because it’s an antique, it’s only filled with down that pokes you if you’re not careful to make sure it’s aligned in the case properly. The whole thing must weigh three pounds, and it’s delightfully malleable to fit any position I choose.

My pillow delight has come to a bitter end.

My husband has threatened to “remove” my pillow for a while now, citing dust, stains, old-gross-ness, etc. and I always answered back with a “fine, then I’m throwing out your shoes.” (He has an abominable pair of cheap caramel loafers that have no traction and look awful, but he likes them for some reason).

Last night, the gloves came off.

He busted out the iPhone as we were lying down to sleep, looking up the stats and facts on old pillows. His findings were less than savory. According to a British doctor, a pillow over six years old is more than 1/3 complied of dead skin, dead mites, mite dung and other atrocities.

My pillow has to be more than three times that age.

I cried. (like every other self-respecting pregnant woman would do at 11pm).

I cried and cried and found a new pillow.