“Please don’t make me, mama,” June winced out. “It’s bite cramps my swollen glands!”
“But you need the vitamins to get well,” countered her mother, sitting down on the side of the bed.
“Why can’t I just die?” spilled June, slumping against the pillows. “It can’t be worse than this!”
Her mother, who knew well how much worse death could be, had the wisdom to bite her own tongue in that moment and not punish June with stories of relatives and loved ones whose names June would not recognize. She gave June a hug. “You will not die from this, my lovey,” she promised. “You will live on to tell the tale to your own children someday, about how you survived a week looking like an orangutan.”
At this image, June let rise a small smile and whispered, “Don’t make me laugh, mama, it hurts when I do.”