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.