Copper

I have been coughing again, a horrible racking cough that comes and does not recede without leaving a pain in my chest. Sometimes I worry about what's going on inside this body of mine, this wall of fiber that frames my soul. Its weakness, its sensitivity, its frightening colors. Just one look at the product of my lungs is a prophecy of the catastrophe that I am, have been, will be.

This is the second time this year I've had the same infection. I am getting better. But the coughing always worsens at night, and I wake up to the heaving of my own body. It distresses me. My mother says that lung diseases afflict those who tend to sit slumped all day, who are given to unhealthy thoughts. But maybe these diseases just afflict those bodies that are weak, with minds that are weaker.

No, don't worry, because I am getting better. But sickness is saddening, because Goldengrove was not what Margaret was born to mourn for. Well, we have been saved from the blight, so in truth, there is no need to mourn anymore. But the fragility of it all is still frightening. And I still dread the smallest crack. Because the old eyes, the old flesh--they still persist. Though I am well. But I am well.