Being sick is almost comforting.
The fever in bed reminds me of times that I would be sick, and freezing in bed, and my mom would somehow know and come and lie with me until I warmed up. Or she would always have a wet facecloth for me when I was too hot.
A certain cough reminds me of lying on the couch in Whitby with Kleenex around me, and the scent
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I feel that way about my dad, too.
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