Pillow of Memories

Denzil Jayasinghe

3 min read

Susan stood in the quiet hallway, her fingers fumbling as she tied her hair up. The house felt heavier these days, as though the walls themselves were holding their breath. She hesitated for a moment, her gaze drifting toward the slightly ajar door at the end of the hall — her son’s room. It loomed there, silent and still, like a shadow she couldn’t quite bring herself to face.

Since his sudden departure for Dubai barely two weeks ago, she’d avoided his room, a hollow ache in her chest with every step past the closed door. It felt too raw, too recent, but the pull was too strong to ignore. Her heart thudded in her chest as she stepped closer, her hand trembling as she pushed the door open. The room was a snapshot of his hasty departure. His duffel bag, half-zipped, still sat on the floor, a few stray shirts spilling out. He’d left in such a rush, a whirlwind of “gotta go, Amma, huge opportunity.”

The small single bed, its sheets crumpled and half-pulled back, looked like he had just rolled out of it moments ago. A lump formed in her throat as she stared at it, the emptiness of it all pressing down on her. She could almost see him there, sprawled out like he used to be, his laughter echoing in her memory — a stark contrast to the hurried goodbye they’d shared just weeks ago.

The room still smelled faintly of him — a mix of soap and the faintest hint of the Old Spice cologne he’d started wearing before he left. She walked over to the bed, her steps slow and deliberate, as if each one carried the weight of a thousand memories. Her fingers reached out, trembling slightly, and brushed against the pillow. It was still indented, the faint outline of where his head had rested all those nights ago. She lifted it gently, bringing it closer, and inhaled. The scent hit her like a wave — the faint smell of cigarettes. That stubborn, lingering smell she had begged him to rid himself of.

Her heart clenched. How many times had she scolded him for it? How many times had she pleaded, her voice tinged with worry, “Please, just quit. It’s not good for you.” But he’d always just smiled that lopsided grin of his, shrugged, and said, “I’ll try, Amma. I promise.” And yet, here it was, the proof of his struggle, etched into the fabric of his pillow.

Tears blurred her vision as she clutched the pillow tighter, the scent filling her lungs. It was him. All of it was him. For a moment, she could almost hear his voice, see him leaning against the doorframe, his hands shoved into his pockets, trying to deflect her concern with a joke. “It’s just a bad habit, Amma. I’ll kick it eventually.”

But now, the room was silent. The jokes were gone. The arguments were gone. All that remained was this — the faint smell of cigarettes, the unmade bed, his posters of pop stars and his artwork on the walls. She looked at the poster of Santana. The ache in her chest refused to fade. She sat down on the edge of the bed, the pillow still pressed to her chest, and let the tears fall. She hated that smell and what it represented, but in that moment, she would have given anything to have him back — cigarettes and all.

Because even the things that frustrated her about him were part of him, and now, they were all she had left. The books were stacked haphazardly on the desk. His denim jacket was slung over the chair, and the pants he left behind lay unwashed on the clothes rack. The unmade bed — all fragments of a life that felt so far away now. She missed him in a way that words could never capture, in a way that ached deep in her bones. The silence of the house and the stillness of his room all screamed of the life that had once filled it.

Susan sat there for what felt like hours, holding onto the remnants of her son, her tears soaking into the fabric of his pillow. She knew he’d be back — he’d promised — but the uncertainty of his return and the distance weighed heavily on her. As the eldest, he had always been the rock of the family. Now, that rock was thousands of miles away. But for now, in this room that still held pieces of him, she allowed herself to feel it all — the love, the loss, and the hope that one day the bed wouldn’t be empty.

Mothers

Motherhood