The Flu is an artist. A special virus. Flashy. Modern. Not unlike Picasso, Miró and Gaudi. Although it isn’t Spanish and they are incomparable. It’s slightly odd comparing the flu to art but I tend to think in color. I recently taught my daughter’s class how to express like Miró. Maybe that’s why. This flu is bright with splotches of red, pale like slivers of the moon and drippy like rivulets of water sliding down a stormy window. The splotches are not the measles I assure you. I’ve had the measles. They weren’t pretty either. Chicken pox has hit one child’s school. It isn’t the pox. It is just heavy and powerful, expressive and stubborn. The splotches are red and angry, the body fighting a virus. I would like to bid it adieu, but it will not leave. Its refusal isn’t kind. An unwelcome addition that drains and exhaustively surrounds all at the same time.
I don’t know why it decided to paint my family with its bright colors, but it’s difficult to wipe clean. Not water-soluble if you know what I mean. Although much water is consumed to wipe out toxins and tissue boxes are like collectibles in every room. Vitamin c, elderberry syrup, bowls of chicken soup and probiotics lie in order on the kitchen counter;orange, purple, brown and white. It is not the sort of art I want in my house. It has invaded my life, rendering my powers of positive thinking into complete uselessness. We are in rounds two and three. I sigh, I hope. Fingers crossed, I wait.