Rain & Fever
I love a rainy day. I fucking hate the flu. Today, I get both.
I don't do well with illness. When it's me, I assume my death is imminent. For now, it's only a tickle in my chest. When my son so much as sniffles, I'm an anxious mess. Today is his fourth day at 103°F+.
I lost a sister when I was very young. I have vague memories of waking up in the middle of the night to find her being tended to by my mother on the couch in the living room. Small, sweaty face by the light of the Christmas tree, struggling for breath. Me in the shadows of the hall, a confused specter in the darkness. Proof there is no god.
I guess that wound never healed. So now, when I see my own son struggle, I feel the potential horror waiting just out of sight. I don't know how my parents survived it.
I found yesterday's post to be quite cathartic. I realized afterwards that I'd been avoiding those thoughts again for quite some time.
Now I'm sitting upstairs, my gaming monitor doing double-duty as a WFH screen, and staring out the open window at this boring suburban scene.
Cookie-cutter houses, half-dead banana plants in the yard across the way, and a very slight fall breeze. The crows in the backyard are screaming for food. My fault for indulging them.
I think I'm close to something.