Tester

Maroon
Colin Rosemont
I lay in bed,
one hundred and
some odd numbered fever baking me
from the inside out.
They knew about this storm for
weeks or longer I’m sure, kept quiet
about it, and then decided to give
the entire city a week to prepare for
the coming onslaught. So as I lay
there—vacillating between fits of
feverish rage and the icy isolation
that comes with being sick and
alone—I felt a distant ease about
hunkering down for a week or
more. My cupboards now housed
a week’s worth of dried food and
water. My brick apartment building
appeared menacing in its wear,
looking as though it had withstood
countless other storms, and I felt
confident in its hands.
The morning came without
a word. My apartment windows
with their sun-burnt glass let in no
light. The grey hues that filled the
sky before first light never dissipated,
but became the backdrop to
the entire day before the slow dial
turned from grey to black. I tend to
speak of The Storm as a particular
event or moment in time, despite
its having lasted some six days.
But this seems much more accurate
than referring to a chronology
of time: Day 1—8:20 am… Day
3—4:30 pm… The power went
out and I have long since lost my
heirloom watch that might have
held a steady tick throughout the
week. So instead it feels more like
a rounded event over the course
of several days, encompassing the
early fatigue of my sickness, its
precipitous rise to a feverish nightmare,
and its slow abatement with
that of the storm.
As I began, I lie in bed, struck
through by that ominous fever
that portends of something much
worse. Sometimes, in the past I recall,
I’ve been in feverish fits and
felt the tension of life bend and
the dark coolness of death appear
as a real avenue that would surely
be better than the seemingly eternal
hellfire of my burning sickness.
It is no wonder that in times past
those who were struck with fever
could be likened to having been
pierced by the devil’s tongue, on
their way to their infernal fates.
I feel, enfolded in the covers of
my bed, old and weary. My body
bears the mark of many lifetimes
before me—my parents, grandparents,
great grandparents—living in
completely different worlds of the
aspiring rush to the West and the
depressed East of the big city, but
always getting by. I reflect upon
my still young flesh and count the
21