Head Cold

It’s just a cold, sure.  But man it feels awful.  My nose is raw, the raspy cough irritating though I’ve been drinking hot tea 24/7 to combat that.  No one nods at you in sympathy, it is just a cold despite feeling like the incuubus for the plague.

But Mom?  Mom knows.  Mom will nod.  Mom will rest her dimuintive hand on your forhead and afford you an,

“yeah, feels like a slight fever”, giving you the validation you need for laying about and waiting for death to take you.  Mom will invite you over and try to push her odious favorite curative, a TURMERIC LATTE.  And you will make the same old wretching noises while she laughs and offers you the lunch you came for,  kitchdi (a rice and dal porridge).   Invariably you will feel better, probably more because someone saw and pitied than anything else.   And it will feel so good.

I live in the condo next door to my mother and I love it. The kids get to be spoiled behind closed doors.  She babies all of us just enough and is able to beat a hasty retreat when we become too much for her to take.  Her steadfast insistence on having family dinners together have turned evenings of grabbing something quickly into a true sit down family time.  Sure we argue most of the time. Last night as my son tried to explain the life cycle of stars, as the rest of us cackled and interrupted him.  The zingers of the evening,

from my daughter “We are the most annoying family”

and right before any artifice of conversation completely collapsed into fits of giggles,

from my mother,

“I thought all the stars go to California”.




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Relentlessly punctual, hedonist denim-head. Inked, vain, lover of shoes, clothes, and handbags, but mostly lost causes.

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