Nothing makes you feel more like a parent than rescuing your kid from their own barf, pulling their warm body to you as they shake, sort of confused as to why their dinner just came out through their nose. There’s a speed with which you change the sheets, and a numbness to the fact that there’s now puke on you. You remember the exact yellow of the old plastic bowl you barfed into when you were their age, the exact brown of the wood floor. The bubbles of the Sprite you got to drink only when you had the flu, the cold of the sheets on the couch, butter on crackers, the feeling and sound of mom in the kitchen opening a can of soup with the electric opener, are all so clear. Those safe sick days that you longed for, where you were fully just cared for. There’s the having once been held, and now fully holding.

Morrison remembers the exact feeling of his Dad’s hand on him when he was small, and barfed, and how his Dad’s hand was so big, it covered his whole head. So he puts his hand on Joe’s head, and his fingers reach from ear to ear, his big hand cooling down his son’s fevered face. No one taught him how to do it, and no one ever needed to. It’s the feeling of time being folded like laundry, sheets for sick days tucked neat into the drawer with the Parcheesi that’s missing pieces. Joe wakes up, not having barfed since last night, and learns that he’ll still get to stay home all day, and rest and play with Mom and Dad. He says it’s the best day of his life.