Too Sick to Do Anything
Maya felt terrible. Too tired to play, too achy to move. But being sick also meant: warm soup, extra stories, and Mama's hand on her forehead.
I don't feel good. My head hurts. My throat hurts. My whole body feels heavy and wrong. I can't play. I can't eat. I can't even watch my favorite show. All I can do is lie here. Being sick is boring. And lonely. And bad. But. Mama brought me soup. The good kind with the little stars. Dad tucked the blanket around me extra tight. My sister made me a card with a wobbly heart. And when I woke up from my nap, my stuffed elephant was right there. Someone put him next to my pillow. Being sick is bad. But being taken care of is something. Mama's hand on my forehead — cool and soft. Dad's voice reading a story — low and calm. The quiet house letting me rest. Maybe being sick is my body saying: slow down. stop. let people help. I don't like it. I want to feel better NOW. But while I wait, I'm not alone. I'm wrapped up. Looked after. Loved. And tomorrow — or the next day — I'll feel like me again. For now, this is my only job: rest. I can do that.
