like a prizefighter

February 12, 2007 | Filed Under ordinary 

we’re sick. the terrible surprise of our children screaming for us in the night because they’ve thrown up and don’t know what to do making us sorrowful. henry is ever like ernie, careful and sure to not get the mess anywhere other than where it has to be. jude, not so. we laugh at the table as jude is like me, always spilling something on his shirt, and henry is like ernie, wearing white and keeping it that way while eating something saucy. henry seems to be over this sickness (we’re never sick, either, really we’re not) as his energetic flutter through the house bears witness. jude and i stare at him from the bed until we feel seasick from the commotion, motion, and look away. ernie alone can still eat without feeling sad that he did so. the dog is mournful as we only take notice of him as necessary. we take baths and put on clean pajamas. ernie surprises us with “something orange to drink” at jude’s request. the tv is on too much and i feel badly about that. we miss kindermusik today and jude does not notice.

i’m sad that these boys are scared when they’re sick, that they don’t understand why i won’t let them gulp water all through the night. i remember that i would wake my mother up, even as a teenager, so that she would come to the bathroom and “hold my hair” for me so that i could throw up with someone nearby. later, i sat in my room all day with a giant bowl on one side of me in the bed and a pile of books on the other. my brother threw up in his nightstand drawer in the middle of the night and my dad had to clean up a mess of puked on baseball cards and other messy piles of clutter. i was insulted when he flipped on the overhead light in my room to spread newspaper on my floor: “i’m not SICK!” i insisted as he flicked off the light and went back to bed. i think of this as i rub circles over and back again on jude’s back, as i wash horrible towels, as i hope for a better day tomorrow.

the sun shines and it does not snow again. i remember being promised cold for this week. there are crocuses already in the ugliness of the place we plan our garden. they’re yellow and don’t seem to belong in the sleeping jaundiced grass. henry picks something rosy from the bushes and takes it apart to see the inside. he finds another and gives it to me “for a valentine.” we go inside and stare at the wall, the tv, the floor because we really should have been resting.

Comments