There is a pillow on my bed which smells, unmistakably, of Him.
It would otherwise be unremarkable, this thin blue thing. Blue, checked, cheap material from my university days. One head wide, possibly with space for another side-of-a-face to rest peacefully upon. Made of such un-extraordinary stuff that you believe it’s completely and utterly forgettable. For about two minutes. And then it’s not even forgettable, just a pillow.
What is remarkable is his scent. Like a ticket to the cinema of memory it is a trigger to the moving pictures of my mind. Flitting across my synapses and opening creases in an internal universe of a place quiet, and sacred, and free. A place that’s mine.