I identify so strongly with the small boy who has spent the day thinking he is going to die because he mixed up Fahrenheit and Celsius. Poor Schatz. being sick sucks so damn much. at least you got a nice Papa to take care of you.
About what time do you think I'm going to die?' he asked.
'What?'
'About how long will it be before I die?'
'You aren't going to die. What's the matter with you?'
Oh, yes, I am. I heard him say a hundred and two.'
'People don't die with a fever of one hundred and two. That's a silly way to talk.'
'I know they do. At school in France the boys told me you can't live with forty-four degrees. I've got a hundred and two.'
He had been waiting to die all day, ever since nine o'clock in the morning.
'You poor Schatz,' I said. 'Poor old Schatz. It's like miles and kilometers. You aren't going to die. That's a different thermometer. On that thermometer thirty-seven is normal. On this kind it's ninety-eight.'
'Are you sure?'
'Absolutely,' I said. 'It's like miles and kilometers. You know, like how many kilometers we make when we do seventy in the car?'
'Oh,' he said.
But his gaze at the foot of his bed relaxed slowly. The hold over himself relaxed too, finally, and the next day it was very slack and he cried very easily at little things that were of no importance.
I know I am out of the red here, but my god, I wish I could stop crying. it just bubbles out of me to where I can't barely even speak. I feel fine, the tears don't really seem to have much emotional content, they just choke me up and irritate my face with the damn salt.
time passes. tick tick tick.
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