For english, we did a quick write based off of Ross Gay’s compilation of lyrical essays: The Book of Delights. I chose to write about my pillow.
My pillow. Cool to the touch, soft, comforting to my arms rapped around it. My pillow. Like a base and snare drum combined when used skillfully. My pillow. Letting my face sink into it as I drift off to sleep. My pillow is not a MyPillow™. It is discontinued, one of only a few of its kind. I've had my pillow for as long as I can remember, comforting me when I felt fragile, giving me a release when I was mad, always there when I needed to rest. My pillow is irreplaceable, and that frightens me. If there was a fire, I would grab my pillow first. My pillow, full of tiny foam beads, makes a sound, like rain falling, like sand in an hourglass, like the sizzle of warm eggs on the stove, that blocks out the noisy worlds as I sink into slumber. I wish my pillow could last forever. But it is old, nearly as old as I am. It is getting dirty, stained by time filled with moments I wish I could get back. Is it possible to miss something before it's gone? Because I miss my pillow, even when it's under my head. What will I do when I don't have my pillow to comfort my loss? Sometimes, I don't even want to fall asleep when I have my pillow. I just want to lay and feel its cool and gentle touch on my cheek. My pillow will be there for me, my greatest comfort, until I lay it down to rest eternally.