Sickness

Something about being sick makes me want to read Robert Louis Stevenson and eat milk-toast, even though I know I'll have to get up and get these things myself if I want them.
   My bed is a fortress: all down comforter and flannel sheets, stacks of pillows, books and magazines, a box of tissues, and the Russian princess bathrobe (you know, the pink quilted satin one with fake-fur trim).
   The quasi-tubercular novelty of soggy coughing has worn off, and sleeping on my back becomes something to dream about, to aspire to.
   But it's quiet now. The cars on the freeway sound unusually far off, like being in the mountains. The 12:00 freight comes through late, like a ghost train—no whistle, the barricades down but not ringing.
   A note from my doctor, which I presented like a truant schoolgirl, will keep me home for two more days. Thus I doze, and thus I dream. I hope you're feeling well.