Note from the Author: … I don't even know anymore.
Remedy
I press a pink handkerchief over my nose and mouth, pretending it is a pink gas mask and not my attempt to prevent a cough from escaping the prison that is my throat. I am cushioned deeply in a nest of comforters and cotton sheets.
Her bony foot taps on the corner of a pillow she snatched from her own bedroom to sit on it. The bone that juts so lovingly from her knee serves as a table for a notebook, across whose lines are scrawled determined words. Her pen is pressed pensively between the third joints of her middle and index fingers, like she is a young girl pretending it is the ever-present cigarette that Audrey Hepburn made so elegant.
I smile at the absence of a real cigarette, knowing that this is none pressed between her plump ruby lips because it causes me discomfort. That beautifully-scowling mouth turns with disdain in my direction, her round eyes dark with irritated concern. "Why aren't you drinking your tea?" Her husky alto seems more pronounced without evidence of its cause.
I make a point to sip the sweetened liquid to satisfy her, and am pleased to watch the worry smooth from her face. The tea soothes my throat, but her love is my real remedy.