How is it that my home is dirtier when I am not here, than when I am? After nearly a month excursion that included a bit of island hoping and trip home to Ohio for the holiday, I returned not to an inanimate house but rather a living breathing creature. Swallowed into its belly as I unlocked the front door.
The walls and ceiling moist. Dripping. Drooling. Bodies of cockroaches, moth wings, and gecko poop littered the white floor like the aftermath of a war zone. Spiders sewn into the wall-meets-ceiling crevasses. A colony of ants invaded and set up shop. Considerate enough to bring in their own dirt to build the tidy hills. Nevertheless, this all pales in comparison to the true beast. Sly and calculative. Truly devious. My home had turned into a host. A feeding ground for a fuzzy, swirled blue-green-white mold. Nobody warns of this beast. This monster that overtakes everything during damp rainy season.
My desk and chairs.
My bedding.
My jackets and sarongs.
The laundry bag.
My plastic swiss-ball.
The binding of books and cd cases.
The inside of purses and bags.
My suitcase… both inside and out.
The cardboard boxes that keep my cleaning supplies.
Doors and walls.
The distinctive mildew smell breathtaking as I opened the cupboard where I keep my clothes. It was selective, some clothes untouched others inconceivably covered in mold. Belts and shoes attacked.
Everything.
It’s the unhealthy environment that you’d rather shut the door on and forget. To abandon all possessions and put-up a for sale sign. Nevertheless, these are non-options. Thus, set to cleaning armed with a bottle of bleach. The clothing strewn about to breath, awaiting a time when the sun conquers the rainy days and will rise high to dry the laundry. In the meantime, I burn a lot of incense. Undeniably the war is still on. The mold, lurking and waiting for the next opportunity to overtake. A surprise attack.
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