The waste basket beside me is filled to the brim, and then some, with the tissues I've used to try and clear my airways repeatedly, since I've been having much trouble breathing. I can't help but feel pangs of intense guilt every time I see the heap, slain tree memories haunting me. I fear that sooner or later they'll realize how infinitely cruel I am, and cease to share their beauty. I could use cloth tissue things, but you have to understand that this thing is out of control, this cold is taking over my fragile, feeble little human body!
I just want someone to wrap me in a soft, warm burrito shell, like a little baby lamb, and give me lettuce to munch on. (Hold the burrito sauce'y matter, please.)
It's perhaps a good thing that trees can't speak, at least not with words, or they'd be hollering obscenities in my general direction as I use one of their own to wipe away the products of my illness. I suppose they don't need words, though, just the sight of the lilac tree outside my window makes me cringe and hang my head in shame. |
