Apparently, it happens slowly. At first, it’s just a little — hardly noticeable. “How did this get so warped?”
Pulling away the hard outer layers. Uncover the damage — wet, black mold. This cancer is eating away at our home.
Waiving the white flag of surrender, we call in the professionals. Two men in coveralls and masks arrive with saws, blowers, and fans.
Pounding, hacking, sawing, and blowing. Fans going 24/7 for five straight days. Nightly, the blowers sounded like an airplane taxiing before takeoff.
Six months later . . . a sleeping daughter is on a mattress on the floor of her brother’s room. My clothes still litter the living room couch. When will we return to normal?
Black mold is the worst! I liked the descriptions here: “The cancer eating away at our home” and “airplane taxiing before takeoff”. Plus, how you used the verbs “pounding, hacking, sawing, and blowing” made me almost be able to picture what’s going on. If this poem is your personal experience, I hope everything will return to normal soon!
Thanks!