Three sick kids join forces for pho, ginger tea, and nighttime cold medicine. It’s a special kind of misery that is nice to share. When you know you’re not in it alone. And you know it’s going to pass.
My alarm goes off in the morning and I hear cars driving by down on the street. Tires on wet road sound like the rise and fall of applause, ushering in the day. “Good job. We’re glad you came.”
Outside the air is warmer than expected, but still cool enough to feel good on my face. Windows down, radio up. I sing quietly over the crackling bass as I merge onto the interstate. It’s going to be a good day. We’re going to be okay.