The Throw Pillow (story by Jill inspired by Jennifer's photo)

 

Jennifer gave me this photo prompt on September 24, 2021. First off, I love this pillow and want one! I love how there are shadow stripes on the deck and stripes on the pillow and how they almost line up, but don’t. Then I thought about someone receiving bad news and using the pillow and the stripes as a sort of distraction, so that they really don’t have to process what was being said. I tried to think about what the news might be, and I started to write. At first I wasn’t sure where I was going with it, but then I realized we don’t need to know for sure. But I did throw in a name from The Reminder posted on July 24, 2021.

The Throw Pillow

I don’t remember the words you said—only that I was trying not to hear and process them as I sat in the glider on the back patio, gently pushing myself back and forth. That was one thing I could control at that moment—how fast the glider moved.

I remember one of our throw pillows had fallen on the deck—who knows how long it had been lying there, and the strips were almost exactly in line with the shadows. I remember staring at them and willing them to line up.

I remember you being really mad about me looking at that pillow. And then you kicked it into the yard. “Clara,” you shouted. “Look at me.” 

And I did.

Your eyes were pools of tears, and your cheeks were splotchy red. And it almost broke me until you screamed, “Why aren’t you reacting!” 

And those words gave me another chance to focus on something other than the original words you had said, moments before.

What you didn’t understand was that as long as I didn’t react, those first words weren’t real. They were just random words.

I slowly stood up and walked down into the yard, toward the pillow you had kicked. I looked at it lying in the grass. There was no longer a shadow on it to distract me. 

I bent over and picked it up, planning on taking it back up to the deck—to its chair. I needed to do something so that I didn’t have to put the words in order.

But that task wasn’t enough, and the words arranged themselves.

A guttural, animal sound started in the distance somewhere and then grew until it was completely surrounding me, drowning out everything else.

I put the pillow up to my face.

—Jill Cullen (written on October 2, 2021)