She watches as his hazel eyes open only halfway behind the curtain of curls. Sometime in the night he padded down the hall from his room and wormed his way between them again. An elbow in the ribs preceded the buzz of the alarm.
“What’s up buddy?”
“My brain hurts, I can’t answer questions today.” His voice is smaller than usual. Brandon is a talker. He talks fast but his voice is soft and whisper small.
“Your brain hurt yesterday too bud, but you felt better by the afternoon soccer practice.”
He smirks because he knows she’s on to him. And then he coughs. It’s a laugh he tries to disguise with a cough but then he’s coughing and it’s real. A little pink drop flies out of his mouth and his chest rattles as he inhales.
“Mom?” There is a fine spatter of pink on the pillow.
“Mom?” His voice thunders in the vacuum of the moment.
8 min in bed, 3.21.13
inspiration: quote overheard from a seven-year old
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