I didn’t think so.
When I woke up at 7, struggled to get ready for work and realized I had a pounding headache, was shaking and had no voice, I first sent a message to my boss saying I was not coming in.
Then I called my mom.
She answered, at 7:22 am, because she’s great.
“You sound awful.”
“I just sent my boss an email saying I couldn’t work, I’m so sick, can they fire me for this?”
“Bell, it’s not like they pay you at the internship. You’re sick. No they can’t. Maybe you should call? Then they can hear how awful you sound.”
“I don’t wannaaaa…”
(I’m really good at whining)
“Well, fine, but just rest. Ok. Drink water…”
“I know Mom, I know,” I said between sniffles.
All I really wanted was for her to be here with me, make me tea and toast and give me handfuls of vitamins and medicine every few hours.
Instead, after I woke up and sniffled like a baby about how awful I felt, I decided I’d look at some pictures of home.
I took all of these from my tree swing, also known as one of my most favorite places on all of this earth.
I know my mother’s going to sell the home in a few years. It’s so big now. So every time I’m home I take a moment to swing on the tree swing.
I spin this way and that and look up into the leaves.
Green in summer.
Red in the fall.
Bare in winter.
Sparse, but with hints of a green hue in spring.
It’s become more and more bittersweet. Now I’m always wondering, how many more times will I sit here before I’m forced to say good-bye.