Musings

It's late. I'm tired.
The clock reads 11:23. A gentle breeze of almost spring flows through the open window. My child's throat was so red this evening - I worry.
A hamster rattles his bars in the distance.
I remember as a child, when I was sick, I would look over at my closet - where the light was on - and see patterns of light. The rhythm of my breathing was a pattern of rough and smooth, colors and absence, and it went on and on. It was an interminable experience. Even now when I remember I get worried and my forehead wrinkles in discomfort. I feel the light falling on me and I twist, seeking to remove myself from it's path.
How many times as a child was I sick and my mother told me to "tough it out"?
Was this her reaction to not being able to actually do anything about me being sick?
What would I have done? What have I done?