Tuesday blooms under the skin.

Oh, I'm sick, I am. There's a snuffle in my head and an ache behind my eyes and a willful glower of fever threatening to overtake my senses. There's nothing for it but a quiet couch and a cup of hot tea (steeped too long, steeped so strong the flavor becomes bitter and wistful on my tongue) and a new game to play for as long as I can, at least until...until....untiiiiil. Oh, the yawning, oh, the vague sleepy headache wounded bear of illness.

It's not so bad. A couple of days of rest and I'll be right as (the rain is falling again, as it does, as September wakes and rolls and sits up startled and August is blown away on a hush of scattered brown leaves) I could possibly be, walking and talking and laughing and running around madly, heroine in my very own screwball comedy of errors.

but there's a hint of worry behind this sick -- i've been tired, so tired, for so long -- is this something more than just tired? am i sick worse than just this small sickness of the sinuses? ...and i think to myself:

My god, when did I get so old?