Molds On My Wall

From a hurtling leap through space, with prolonged euphoria, I find myself suspended, an instant away from falling in some dramatic way, in an emotional explosion. Great memories do turn into molds that prickle up the wall and creep across the ceiling in speckled clumps. So I stand on a chair and scrub them back as though I am stripping paint. I strip them off, every great memory, rooting in my mind wee smidges of hope. Now and then they float down the hall to my bed and my clothes, I smell like garden shed on those days.

Call me when the world turns a new cycle. But for now, let me strip memories like molds on the wall.

 

I wrote this piece sometime last year when my whole world seemed moldy and upside down. But the world is round and indeed, it turned another cycle. Now I find myself on top of it with newly painted walls. Molds have been stripped, new good memories come into play, and I smell like cherry blossom these days.