The haze sat like a furry cap on the bowl of the city, like the mold that had been on her cream that morning. She wished she could take a spoon and skim them both off, but she had been told by an old lover that the rot penetrates, even if you can’t see it, so she’d thrown the lot away–the cream, and the city, too.
She wondered, looking down through the plane window what she would do about her part in the pollution. “How many trees do I have to plant,” she asked herself, “to undo what’s been done?”
May 2, 2024
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