When I first came to Holland to visit my wife-to-be, I was astounded by the number of pillows she had lying all over her bed. Not pillows to lay your head upon, but rather the little pillows of various shape and color and size but generally limited functionality. Having gotten past the predominant pinks and reds and the uncountable hearts, I still pause to contemplate the risks and costs of this fetish. The risk of spraining an ankle as you stumble over the mountain of pillows between you and the toilet at 3AM and the costs of gathering 53 pillows every morning as you make the bed and head to breakfast. Having observed my wife's frenetic morning rituals, I simply marvel.
Three years of marriage have not ended this fetish, though until recently I had thought I had become relatively accustomed to this particular peculiarity of my spouse. Accustomed to moving pillows out of the way in order to find a place to sit on the couch. Accustomed to moving pillows out of the way when I have to store something in the attic. Accustomed to the pillows with their various messages. Next to the pillow with the word HOME sewn upon it is a pillow with the image of a postcard, with text in English, French, Spanish, Russian, and Polish. There is also another pillow with the image of an envelope with various stamps and illegible writing.