Implosion - Mizeta Moon

A pile of laundry on an unswept floor held no interest. Nor did the remains of a birthday cake she baked for herself out of habit rather than a desire to celebrate. The ants would eventually carry it away. Her life had become a sandcastle eroded by each passing tide. Ramparts breached, turrets crumbling, the penthouse sinking to the basement, leaving her tattered flag lying on a lonely beach. Were it not for auto deposit and pay, an eviction notice would arrive with each post.

The kids never called. They were daddy’s girls and she was the evil stepmom despite loving their father fiercely and never treating them badly. His passing made her a thing of the past. The days no longer held hope, only shattered dreams, and unfulfilled promises. A life without meaning, colorless, and devoid of bright music. Only a dull symphony of despair remained to serenade hours filled with loneliness. No joy could dwell in such a barren heart, whose every beat prolonged her agony.

It hadn’t always been that way. The bloom of youth once caressed her skin and her  eyes shone with anticipation of each new dawn propelling her to greater horizons. Setbacks were overcome with a seemingly boundless wealth of optimism that eventually became vulnerable to tragedy and pain. Had she known what lay ahead, she would have surrendered early rather than suffer gradual dissolution of her happiness. To be nothing but a shriveled shell awaiting the death knell seemed scant reward for valiant effort.

She’d tried to make sense of it all. To believe there was something waiting when one journeyed on from a world filled with pestilence, war, misery, and greed, but failed to find comfort in words delivered by hypocrites. She’d struggled to care about others but was repugned by those who exploited anyone in their path for money and returned nothing but disdain. The lack of concern for the welfare of society became an ulcer in her bowels she couldn’t ignore when her naivety faded. She would die alone but unafraid, and eternal darkness would be greater comfort than a light-filled existence in a world without love.

She was glad that cancer was eating away at her organs and they would fail soon. She wasn’t brave enough to commit suicide. She’d been offered hospice care but couldn’t stand the thought of someone pretending everything would be fine and that she would be missed. When the neighbors smelled the stench of her corpse and called someone to cart it away, what little she owned would be sold or donated and her home would be seized to pay back taxes. She’d arranged to be cremated years earlier when her husband was still alive. No urn would be required as no one remained who cared enough to tend her ashes.

When her little teapot started whistling, she shuffled from her chair to the stove and poured its warmth into an old mug she won at a carnival long ago. Like her, its surface was crackled and worn, Cradling it, she stared out the window as photographs from her life turned on the pages of her mind. Daffodils were pushing their way into the light and spring lurked just around the corner. She doubted she’d see this year’s roses but hoped the new tenant would enjoy their scent like she had over the years and appreciate the beauty they bring to an often gray world.    

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