Sunday, July 30, 2023


When I put things in the sink the other day, I also put the spoons used to serve out the lamb pilaf and the eggplant-whatever-it-was there. They had been resting on a little plate placed atop a small tub. There was goop on the plate. So that too needed washing. Underneath the little plate, in the small tub, was a beautiful white poofy ball. Which, several months ago, may have been a fresh fruit.

Sure, I suppose I could have cut it open to see what it had been originally. Sorry, I'm not that curious. So I simply left it there, because it was beatiful in its soft virginal covering of perfect fluffy mold.

Twenty four hours later it was gone. I grieve for that perfect mold ball.
She had disposed of it.

We have not spoken about this.

She will probably not gladly admit guilt.

She's the one who eats fruit. Not me.

I just admire its transformation.

An object of ghostly beauty.

AFTERWORD: I will fess up to the dried citruses here and there, though. They too are very nice. I keep buying lemons intending to use them, but over the years a few of them have dried up before I got to that. There's always a faint flower-like dry perfume remaining once the various citrus oils have left. Oranges don't perform so well, small tangerines are okay, some types of pomelo are spectacular.

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