Our youngest son, our heart of hearts, moved to the west coast.  We live in Michigan.  I still get emotional about all of our kids around birthdays and holidays of any kind.  My husband and I shopped around for things we liked.  I had a miserable cold in February.  My throat, ears, and head ached.

However, we sent each a box that was belated for Valentine’s Day.  He called a week ago after he had come down with a fever and what sounded like the flu.  He dropped his grown man voice and whined about his illness.  He tried all drug store items to combat his misery.

He went, at last, to a Minute Clinic near where he lives.  He was diagnosed with an ear infection and sore, perhaps strep, throat.  A round of powerful antibiotics was prescribed.

We talked on the phone once he started to feel human.  He then blamed his illness on the contents of the box we had sent to him. “You sent the flu to me in that damned box.” he said.  I laughed hard and said, “Didn’t you tell me recently that you had mopped up a few bars with friends lately?”  Silence.  He still blamed us and it will be a cold day in Hell, or the next holiday or birthday, before we send him another box.