The Thing About Mold
The mood had been solemn. I had come out of nowhere as far as she was concerned, or for all she seemed to care. The old woman and I had spent a long while together on her front porch, side-by-side in rocking chairs, staring out at the sea. Twilight reflected and flickered in her eyes, as it did on the waves.
She then suddenly got up, but with some difficulty. She stood still, looking ahead. Turning to me, she said in a flat tone, “The thing about mold is that it’s invisible until it runs out of space under your living room rug… life hands you a lovely pink and gold bone China cup at first… but it slowly empties, and eventually breaks… still, remember that all life begins with woman.”
Having said that, she walked a few steps towards the waters and seemed to be waiting. Perhaps she hoped that I would speak, or stop her? She didn’t say, and I didn’t ask.
“What the hell…” I thought instead, “if that is all she has to say about it…” and decided not to intervene.
She walked away a little further towards the ocean, with both resolve and hesitation in her step, but undoubtedly hope as well. Was it hope to recover what had been, or for what lay ahead? I still wonder. I let her go in spite of the gripping in my heart, rocking where I sat.