A depressing deep greened-blue iris with a white pupil made of cheap plastic waits for me in bed.
I wish I did not have to fill it myself.
I wish I could just lie on my mattress, feverish, and hear careful footsteps curling quietly upwards on the creaking wood stairs. Sense the curtains to my sundown sleeping alcove part with a whisper. My wide-eyed duty-bound boy bringing my ice pack. Kneeling gently on the edge of the bed, leaning over me … “here’s your cold-pack”.
No trace of wetness on the outside.
I wish I had one I could trust to always keep fresh cubes in the freezer. Filling each plastic cell level with a patient trickle of water.
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