He languished by the lamp, head drooping, book in his hand. I sat beside him. “You feeling okay?” I said. I already knew the answer, but I wanted to hear it from him.
He didn’t even speak; he only shook his head. I could feel the heat radiating from his skin; he had all the outward signs of the flu.
I took him in my arms, let him rest his head against me. The possibility of contagion doesn’t bother a mama whose son is battling sickness. So though I was the only one in my house who hadn’t gotten a flu shot this year, I rocked my son because he needed me.
I read stories. I rubbed oils on his chest. I let him sleep in my arms—because he is getting bigger and he will not always allow me to do this. I held him as long as I could, as long as he needed.
And though I am glad my son does not suffer from sickness often, or sickness that is terminal, I enjoyed the time I had with a four-year-old who didn’t feel like bouncing out of my arms before I was ready.
I soaked up the moment, which lasted only two days.
Today he is racing in and out of rooms, flinging flowers at me, trying to find where he put his shoes so he can go out back and sword fight with sticks.
The smell of him clinging to my shirt.
