Saturday evening, the plague arrived.
I wasn’t just your garden variety plague either, but the full package: sweats, shakes, congestion, and a surprising amount of ear pain.
Since my family clearly did not properly appreciate the magnitude of my suffering, I was obliged to inform them, releasing carefully timed moans periodically throughout the day on Sunday.
They did not elicit the proper amount of attention.
This morning, I shuffled out of my bedroom to find my youngest son cheerfully making breakfast for the family. It was a wonderful gesture, an unasked-for gift for the rest of us.
“Morning, Daddy!” he said cheerfully.
“Morning,” I croaked.
“How are you feeling today?”
“I’m on Death’s Door,” I said, staggering slightly for effect.
He smiled, eyes twinkling. “Knock, knock, knock!” he said loudly. “Special delivery!”
I wrapped my robe more tightly around my disease-ridden frame and gave him my best dying glare.
It didn’t work. All he did was laugh harder as he returned to his breakfast-making.
There is no love in this world.
It was, however, a very tasty breakfast.