On coughing it up.

Is it weird I kind of like the way it tastes?, I asked my husband, letting a freshly hawked-up bit of mucus rest in my mouth like some fine wine before I spat it out.

Especially when you’re sick, I said. All bright and saline the moment it comes up your throat. I feel like a cough, in fiction, so often portends something awful—worse yet, the handkerchief, unraveled to reveal the evidence of your impending demise.

For me, at least, it’s less dramatic. My son, feeding me a fistful of peas off his plate or landing a wet, boogery kiss on my eye and: ah. I’ll survive.

The rattle in my chest. Something inside, something to get out.