When I was young, I loved being sick. Spending the day in Mom’s bed, I’d call the local phone number that would play automated recaps of soap operas and thumb through the stack of weekly gossip magazines. It was a glimpse into what I imagined unsupervised adulthood would be like. I loved the stillness of our house but by late afternoon I’d long to hear the back gate slam close and your feet on the deck returning home from school. Then Mom shortly after, through the front door, sometimes bearing treats meant to aid in my recovery. As night would fall, there was anxiety about homework accruing over the days missed and dread about social milieus playing out at school unobserved. Returning to the world of the well was a relief.
After a week in bed with Covid, I find myself in a similar position today.
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