Breathe

What kind of dreams do you dream when you're sick?

I dream that my lungs jump out of my body, straight out through my dry, open mouth. They chase after me, the thick mucus that coats every cell of my bronchioles dully gleaming. Sometimes other organs - my heart, or a naughty kidney - attempt to join the race, but they're held back by invisible chains and angel-ducks that sing gospel songs instead of quacking.

I also dream that I'm being engulfed by fish. Nurse Fish, with red-and-white stripes and dainty yellow fins, who survive by feeding off my illness. Sometimes the water I'm in is clear, but it is almost always as thick as honey. The Nurse Fish peel bananas for me, and put them in my Get-Well-Soon cereal. Then my ex-boyfriends come to breakfast and fry all my eggs. That's when the angel-ducks and Nurse-Fish wake me, whispering wake up, wake up, you'll miss the sunrise.

We'll let you shower using the Extra-Moisturizing Loofah of Youth.

We'll make you well again.

Just open your eyes.