Florence never got sick.
That sneeze was a fluke. The COPD was just allergies. And broken rib? What broken rib?
I learned at the broken ribs of a master. Knowing that I am sick takes others telling me to shut up, go home, lie down. Well, it takes a lot to admit defeat to something that doesn't have a face or a pair of fists. But so be it.
A May Day Post of 2011 commemorating sick days.
Juggling a soup bowl or a cup of tea, Florence would point her finger at me and say, "Well, you know it's all your fault."
After that statement of fact, the rest of the day would be spent curled with a pile of my favorite books and the radio tuned to the New York City radio station that broadcast children shows for all the sick kids stuck at home. On special days, I even got to spend the day in my parents' bed. Naps would sneak up on me and when the radio was tuned to WABC AM, music like 'These Boots Are Made For Walking' would transform my dreams to music videos before video had even been invented.
These days, books and a mini-tv and the cat keep me company as I drift in and out of naps. Every once in a while I tell myself "Well, you know it's all your fault."
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