Now I am malingering—lingering not in the true mal, the depths of the sickness itself, but reluctant to come out of that safe place of perfect excuses and not having to do anything but lie around and read, able to say to all unpleasant tasks and chores “Sorry, I’m sick—just go away!” To put all shortcomings and failures, for the moment, firmly out of mind.
The place where kind neighbors bring bags of lemons from their trees for me, and I discover by some equal magic a jar of wild thyme honey from the mountains of Crete, forgotten for years in the far dim reaches of the pantry cupboard until I need it to brew my healing tea. (There, too, are cedar planks for salmon; some most delightful bacon-flavored pasta sauce from Half Moon Bay; a box of strozzapreti from a shop that closed two years ago; three kinds of beans and six of spicy Indian vindaloos and tikka masalas and kormas; a can of kippers; Cream of Wheat; and an orange box of Uncle Ben’s rice.)
The place where I can wrap up warm and put on favorite socks and summon childhood spells to keep the world and its worries at bay—for just another day.
image: Christie B. Cochrell, Unmade Bed