I finger the small flower in my grasp, it's delicate petals tickling my wrist and long stem falling upon the bedsheet. I clench it tightly, afraid that my next cough will shake it far to hard, ripping petal from flower, and ruining this gift. The dandelion remains mostly the same, if slightly crinkled. Just like me.
From my window, a slight breeze whistles by in the summer air, the trees shake softly, and the kids run and yelp and laugh. Cars pass lazily and neighbors mingle happily while dogs bark contentedly at squirrels skittering frantically. I can practically feel the heat from the warm summer sun baking my skin, turning it that lovely golden brown. Can recall running with such freedom. Remember sipping lemonades with Susan and Theodore on the patio, letting the sounds of the neighborhood lull us into peace.
Inside my room, however, the air is stale, everything still, quiet. The TV does not play cartoons and fill my room with the same joyful noise, no books are to left to give me the illusion of feeling this summer, and the only thing I drink nowadays is water.
Theodore misses me though. He picked 15 dandelions. One brilliant flower for each of my birthdays. We did not see each other, we cannot. I would never wish this grim confinement to him. But I see his grinning smile in this flower. And feel his lips on mine.
I will be strong, like this dandelion. I will overcome this sickness.