THE PUBLIC SHELF

Open when you're sick

Couch. Blanket. That terrible movie you love, the one with the singing dogs. No arguments, that's the prescription.

I know you. You're lying there feeling guilty, answering emails on your phone, telling everyone you're fine and it's just a cold. Stop it. Bodies need rest the way phones need charging, and you're at four percent.

Here's what I want you to do. Drink the ginger ale. Take the medicine on time, not when you remember. Do not answer work email. The world will still be there on Thursday, and honestly it will be fine without you until then, which I mean as the kindest possible thing.

Remember when I had the flu in October and you showed up at my door with a grocery bag and just let yourself in? Soup, crackers, the good tissues with the lotion, three trashy magazines, and a puzzle with a thousand pieces that we never finished. You didn't even stay long. You just put everything on the counter, made me tea, and left. I cried when you were gone, and it wasn't the fever.

I'm coming over with soup. The good kind, from the place on Elm. I'll leave it on the step if you don't want company. You don't have to wash your hair.

Rachel

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