Last night my bones were cracking and I couldn't stop moaning. I tried to rest, closed my eyelids, and there were your eyes engraved in the darkness. A tear rolled down my cheek and I couldn't stop wishing you were here.
You are still here while I am sick.
You are getting up every five minutes from the bed to get something out of the kitchen. You are instructing me to drink OJ. You are making toast. You rent movies. You throw up the covers to adjust it perfectly on me. You give me a back massage and tell me to relax. You curl up beside me to rub your hand on my belly, a treasure you always gave me when I was feeling ill.
Going round and round the ring. With pressure you go one way, spreading heat with your palm. Going the other way, your trimmed nails graze across my peach fuzz. You tease me in going lower, and we giggle. Your fingers reach the bra wire and back down to my belly button. Round and round, up and down, those strong, thick, yet short fingers give my illness comfort. After a while you ask if its better, I nod with satisfaction and you give my belly a kiss.
For a man who allotted himself 2 Tylenol per year and gallons of orange juice with no doctor visits, he knew exactly what to do to make me feel better.
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