Sick Day

by amy sharp


My kid sits at my feet reading a book and the record player spins Joni Mitchell like a lullaby.
I think we are creating a memory right now.
Something seeping into his mind like the scent of the candle on the kitchen counter.
Like the way toast tastes better when I make it.
I am wearing hand cream.
I sing a little to the record.
And the house is so still.
There is hardly any wind outside and the sun wants to warm the windows today.
He asks for sugar tea and I push my cheek to his and I don't want for anything.
I don't need a thing.