Worry grips me in spite of myself, digging its fingers into the spaces between my ribs. I took her wrist to help her back under the covers. It was when I brought her the last cup of tea. And I think-I know-that what makes her most furious is that I saw her struggling to get out of bed. Grinding her teeth whenever she’s not coughing. It’s not the first time I’ve thought of disappearing into it, and never coming back.Īnother cough, deep enough to splinter wood and rock. It’s not the first time I’ve seen this trick of water and light. Streaks of sun catch the crystals hovering above the ground. I shift from foot to foot in front of the kitchen sink. November has just turned into December, bringing a cold wind. What’s the alternative? I could go crazy with it, but I’d still be inside. For a moment the fabric presses in tight against my skin, too tight, hemming me in the way the house does. In mid afternoon, with the sun fighting its way through the clouds, I’m barely there. It’s only cabin fever that makes my face look flushed in the shimmering reflection in the window above the kitchen sink. I feel it in the center of my own chest, even one floor removed. The stairs do nothing to conceal the sound. My mother’s cough rattles the house-the wood and the windowpanes and the floor beneath my feet.
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