Nearly three weeks ago, I was struck down with an illness that left me feverish, completely voiceless, and running for the on-call doctor when mine couldn’t fit me in for three days (note to self: get a new doctor already). Drugs kicked the worst of it in the butt, and granted me the gift of speech once more, yet if death by coughing has ever been a threat to yours truly, it has been so over the last dozen or so days. If I spit microscopic pieces of lung at you, I’m sorry.
Swimming in a sea of denim in the form of a pair of new, wide-leg jeans, I find myself catapulted back to a simpler time. The joy of seeing one’s shoes nearly swallowed up is incomprehensible, yet immeasurable.
Stumbling upon leftover cereal, I eat the rest of my sister’s Golden Grahams with milk while looking over the photographic remains of her recent visit.
I feel alive, and all the good and the bad that come with that.