Splendid 7am Science Experiment

It’s 7 am at home. I’ve been gone a long time. In the last 4 months, I have been here a only a matter of days. Last night I returned from a long trip. I open my bedroom door and see the morning light on the ground. It is bright, fresh light. I feel poorly. I’m drugged from the change in time, from airplane food and air, from foot travel with heavy baggage. I stumble around for some moments. Eyes hurt. Nose is stuffed up. Throat is dry. Muscles, some tight or sore, others twitching. Mind is scattered and groggy. I look around to see some new objects in this familiar place. They are small remnants from the life that my roommate has been living here without me for the past weeks. I try to piece them together in my head to create a vision of what I have been missing. I see my pile of mail. I open the cabinet and rummage for some tea. I find a couple bags that used to contain bread. Now they are brilliant, living sacks of multi colored mold and condensation. It’s like a grocery bag Petri-dish. I won the science fair in 8th grade for an experiment on bread mold. I stare at it for a minute. I wonder how long it took for this spectacular growth to occur. And, I wonder how, in all the weeks that I have been gone, it went unnoticed, but for me to find it on my very first morning home. Regardless, it’s not the first time for something like this. It actually would be odd for me not to find something rotting in the cabinet or fridge after being away for a long stint. I’ve started to consider these sorts of things as homecoming gifts from a friend that is happy to see me again. The molds bags were remarkable. I have never seen anything like it. I grab both of them and head outside. The white morning light is shifting to orange. I open the front door. The cool morning air hits my chest and arms. It surprises me. It’s August after all.  I feel the air in my nostrils and then lungs. I pause for a moment with the light and the air, and uhhhh, the mold. I’m home. I love this place. I am so happy to be here right now. I deposit my roommate’s runaway science experiment in the trashcan. I feel the rocks under my bare feet, and the cool air as it brushes by my shirtless body. Back inside, I start to make tea, and all of the above words fill my head. It’s an illustration of my momentary contentment. So, I write them down to remember and to prolong the feeling.

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