It's a quarter to two and I am sick and I find myself craving tea and oranges, which I have cut into wedges and am eating out of a Chinese bowl, in my bed. It's quiet. But there is moonlight. The dogs are surprised by this nocturnal activity. They see a window which would allow them into the bed and they sit by my side waiting expectantly.
Something about being sick gives you an opportunity to see another side of your life. You are too sick too work so you contemplate the other things. I am blunt from ibuprofen yet surprisingly open and optimistic and seeing a different future. Sometimes the door opens and you see just exactly what you have to do. It's a unexpected upside of being a miserable git.
Can we talk about the beauty of oranges? Sweet and sour and refreshing and juicy and the goodness just drips down inside of you. It reminds me of Christmas and my father and the large box he would buy for that season, keeping in the cellar. They were wrapped in purple paper, each one of them. Large, shiny-skinned navel oranges, with babies.
Tomorrow is the birthday of my youngest child. She will be 24. I can't even wrap my head around this age Twenty four years since she appeared. My sweet, sickly child, always ill as a little girl. I feel my current ibuprofen/acetaminophen diet is a kind of homage to her and her high temperatures when she was little. Sweet, sweet thing.