So many things I should be doing right now, but I'm here online, blogging about your dog bolster.

You didn't understand how I could sleep without hugging a bolster. It amazed you that I slept like I belonged in an open casket: on my back and with my hands clasped gently over my heart. So you gave me a bolster, all fire-engine red and dog shaped, wrapped in your favourite T-shirt. You emptied your cologne all over that T-shirt so it smelled like you.

When you fell to earth, I packed away everything from you except that dog bolster. It just couldn't fit into any container, so it rested on the far edge of my bed against the wall, out of reach for the longest time. And I carried on sleeping like the dead.

Last night I woke up with a start, and unconsciously tugged your bolster over so I could cuddle up with it. It was an uphill task. Depending on which direction I hugged, I either suffocated on the dog's head or got jabbed by its stumpy legs. The bolster was difficult, just as you were.

And it no longer smelled like you.