During the 4th of July weekend, I got sick with a high fever. I had achy bones and standing up drained me of all my energy, so I napped through the entirety of Saturday, waking up every a couple of hours to watch the light from my windows change from seafoam white to soft honey and finally to dark inky blue as the night cast its shadow. Sometime before the sun set, I woke up dazed to the sound of high-pitched chirping that came from the attic: baby birds. They just hatched. Their chirping sounded so raw, the first cry of their life.
All day long, and over the night, my mom tended to me. Her warm hand on my forehead. Her rice porridge. Her caring and devotion.
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