Misery Loves Company

Easter morning on Topaz Street, eggs at a reckless boil on the stove, knocking quietly together, Gramma in a handmade cotton apron shaped like a grey tooth with the roots up over her cushioned shoulders and a knot behind her waste. She's dropping a teaspoon of vinegar into the mouths of a row of mismatched mugs. I hear the teakettle whistle and a hollow, persistent pounding. I'm rolling, hot as the water in the screaming pot, until I am forced into awareness and realize the screech is a truck's whining gears at the stopsign outside and the knocking is the intermittent popping of the old planks of wood in the kitchen ceiling of my basement apartment, almost 60 miles from the green house on Topaz. Gramma is just a block or two away from the house (which is now sided in blue), in her bed, fighting the fever we share. Even my follicles are stinging, every inch achy and raw, suffering bouts of chills so extreme my fingernails turn blue and fever so hot my breath sears the hand I'm resting my face on. I'm ravenous but keep forcing down liquids, water, orange juice, a swallow of white plum wine. I worry about Gram, whose nearly 95 years will make it harder to fight this off than my 25. But I also trust the people looking after her and know there's no better place for her to be than in their care. I'm going back to sleep.