ON THE HIDDEN BEAUTY OR MY SICNESS

WHENEVER I thought of my sickness I would hear the melancholy sound of a viola. When I described my sickness to the doctor, he heard the same sound. “You should keep your sickness to yourself, ” he said. One cloudless summer day, I went outside; some crows gathered around me and were silent. I took this as a tribute to the hidden beauty of my sickness. When I told the doctor, he said, “Your sickness may be catching and could ruin everything. Therefore, I am no longer your doctor.” Yesterday, when I considered my sickness, I saw my parents, naked in the baking heat, kissing and whispering. I was worried where my sickness was leading me, and turned my attention to a distant town, to its golden clock, its white stone villas, its boulevards crowded with angels shielding their eyes from the sun.