The younger one didn’t know him now. He had loved and supported her when she was a child and a growing woman. She played and cuddled and loved. The joys, the distress and the uncertainties- he’d been there for them all. He’d felt her grow. He’d dried the tears. He made her secure and comfortable. When she was ready, she moved on and away.
Her children don’t need him. They are far away, and they have their own. He’s glad to see them, and their cousins. They come to visit and they bounce and laugh and hug, but they don’t know him. Not like she did, once.
The older woman knew him. She always had. She’d given him to her daughter, over 40 years ago. When he was needed he was there for them. Always. Where else would he be? What else could he do? These were his people.
The older woman lost her health; her mobility, her vision, her speech. He was in the living room, the bedroom, the nursing home. Where she was, he was. One day, she reached round for him. She managed to whisper his name. ‘Peter.’
Her daughter paused, arms full. A name from the past. She remembered it all. She thought of him, for the first time in years. The women held him, and each other, united in their memories, needing the comfort and support.
They were all on a new path. There was still joy and laughter, but great distress and many tears. He was much needed.
Peter: a name given to generations of family pillows.
From January 2012. Written in response to the Write on Edge prompt: personification.