I don’t feel well.
That’s not strictly true, but it is what I say.
Nobody asks me – in what way are you unwell? They just think, old lady’s ills, what can you expect, bones creak, stomach leaks, who knows what they think? They’ll send my grandchild in her bright red cloak and a basket of goodies. Do they bother to come themselves? No, send the girl. Well, sometimes it helps, sometimes it doesn’t.
I say I don’t feel well, because I can’t find the words to say it differently. It frightens me to search for them. It is only that there is nothing.
I cannot think to bother to bake, or garden, or appreciate the sunshine. My bed is musty with too much sweat, but I cannot leave it. To have the covers pulled up to my chin, it both freezes me and numbs me. It is better to…
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