They told me they found mold growing in the kitchen. A slow leak from one of the pipes and now all of the dark woods framing the cool hues of the granite countertops and tile floors, gone. Ripped from the foundation so they could remove every bit of the growth. I wonder if that’s why lately it’s been hard to take a deep breath. Even from thousands of miles away. I suppose that’s an impossible hypothesis. Perhaps the discomfort’s born in my head. Something like self-inflicted pain. I was up thinking about the night you drove up to the house in silence. I thought maybe a run in the rain would help to wash it away. Clear the stale air out from inside my rib cage. The memory of it kept seeping back into most of my steps though. Wet sand slipping into the space between my socks and skin. The friction of it left a light burn. Red like the color of my face after two songs or a half a mile or however it was best measured. My mom called her sister two nights ago. Something about too many trips north and east. Something about me running away. My dad says they finally pulled the plastic curtains away from the walls downstairs. Everything’s back to how I remember it being. Maybe even better than before, he says. How’s the rest of our tiny town? I wonder if our old school looks as worn as I remember it. Pale whites and blues like its thirsty for a fresh layer of paint. How many years of coating the surface with something young and temporary before its insides start to rot? You’ll have to let me know.
