In the midst of whatever flu-type thing I’ve had this past week, the cellar sofa is a mess of pillows and blankets and discarded robes. One moment I would be chilled – shaking and shivering and piling on a robe and blankets and cranking the fireplace – and the next I would be overheating and sweating like I was back in menopause. Oh how the jokes come when you’re sick and nothing seems funny.
The one happy note in all the sadness and frustration of being sick has been Andy’s help in making our home a comfort and a haven. We had to let our Christmas tree go after what had been a banner year for beauty, and he put the room back together, vacuuming more pine needles than any previous year that either of us could remember. More importantly, he’s been kind enough to make up the bed before I get back into it at night – there’s something so much more comfortable about a bed that’s been made and turned down for bedtime than one that is left undone form the morning. I know there is no scientific basis for this, it’s all in my head, and that doesn’t make it less moving.
