Few objects spark such memories as does my old pillow. When most people see a pillow, they just think of sleep, but my pillow is different. My pillow has been with me since early childhood. That consistent comforter and friend has supported me through thick and thin. That pillow has patiently endured my nightmares and dreams for years. Whether I was in bed with a sickness or running after my little brother in a pillow fight battle, that familiar sack of cotton has been reliable. Every time I lay my head down on my old pillow, a torrential rain of memories floods my mind. My pillow’s name is Pillow. She has several defining features. She is not as fluffy as some of her newer more innovative counterparts. Also, she is not especially flashy in style. She does not match my curtains or add flair to the room. Instead, she is quite ordinary in appearance. She is an average size— nearly equivalent to the size of the back rest on an office chair. However, her normal, slightly even subpar features do not strike a negative connotation in my eyes. On the contrary, Pillow’s commonplace attributes are terrifically charming. She is unexceptional and undistinguished. She is usual at best. Perhaps, though, this is what makes her so enchanting. Her gentle and antiqued baby blue covering magically constitutes an unmistakable aura of friendliness that is inviting and relatable. Pillow has a middle class appearance, but she is sincere and genuine. Pillow reminds me of numerous events and feelings in my life. We have laughed and cried together. We have countless memories to reminisce upon. Some of these memories are bad. I vividly recall crying with Pillow for hours during my childhood in order to mourn the loss of a beloved pet. During difficult times, Pillow seemed to take on somewhat of a motherly role whereas to comfort me in the midst of stress and/or sorrow. Pillow has also gotten me in trouble on multiple occasions throughout my life. I have