Cassia Seed Pillow: An Old Summer Bedroom Object
At the herb stall, the vendor poured cassia seeds into a shallow metal dish and shook it near my ear. The dry rustle explained why this old pillow never behaved like cotton.
The sound at the herb stall
The vendor let the seeds run through her fingers before she weighed them. They were hard, flat, and polished enough to slide away from the scoop. She tied the parcel twice because a loose corner would have emptied the whole packet into my bag.
At home I set the parcel beside the pillow cover. The seamstress who made the cover had left a narrow opening inside a folded flap. Her stitches were close at the corners, where shifting seeds would press hardest.
A pillow arranged for summer
The filled pillow makes a low sound when I turn it. It does not spring back like cotton; the seeds move, settle, and leave a shallow hollow under the head. A thin cloth case keeps the harder texture away from the skin.
A bamboo wife occupied the same summer bed in older rooms. Bedding crossed the courtyard rail when the weather cleared, and sour jujube seeds appeared later in a cup by the bedside. The pillow belonged to this larger arrangement of cloth, air, and evening objects.
The seam checked in morning light
The seamstress told me to look at the stitching before admiring the fabric. A lifted thread mattered more than the printed cover because the filling could escape grain by grain.
In the morning I shake the pillow level and stand it near the open window. The seeds settle with one last soft rush against the cloth.