There have been far too many fevers in this house this winter. It's been such a mild winter. I catch myself thinking that the mildness is the problem, as if viruses were like mosquitoes and the bitter cold would kill them off. We haven't had much bitterness this year. We have had a lot of fever. I lay cold fingers on hot cheeks, turn damp cloths to the cool side, attend the labored breathing, offer drink, wait. I know about fevers. I know fever is the body's great defense against illness. I know it is a good and powerful thing. And something else I know, hunkered down at the edge of my child's battleground. I know fear. Primal. Cold. Unspeakable.
Waiting. I am waiting again.