This post was originally written in February 2024.

Yesterday I had banana pancakes for breakfast. I buttered them generously, and when I went to pour maple syrup on top, I was met with a fuzzy ball of black and green. There on my pancake was the smallest pouring of syrup overtaken by mold. I didn’t know maple syrup had a shelf life. 

You had once made me pancakes, blueberry not banana, because those are my favorite. And one chocolate chip, because that was your favorite. Although I remember you saying you really preferred waffles over pancakes anyway. So in the end, it never really mattered, did it?

I was met with the mold on a Sunday morning, a huge disappointment as I had been finding it difficult to eat since about Thursday of that week. But this pancake sat in front of me, so real, so deliciously smelling of cinnamon and wheat, teasing me with its steam. All loss of appetite finally melted away. But the mold led me to scrape a perfectly good pancake in the trash, wash my plate clean, and head out to the corner store to buy some more syrup. 

I was irritated. Impatient to say the least. Still not dressed for my day, still crusty with drool from last night’s sleep. Perhaps this pancake wasn’t meant for me. Surely the mold was telling me something. Surely there was concern over the state of my apartment, the moisture in the air, my lack of care for things going bad, spoiling, rotting. 

I’m sure there’s more mold elsewhere. I leave most things with closed doors unorganized. My fridge is a myriad of whatever fits where. Milk gallon laying sideways, spinach squelching under the weight of my bread. My closet, empty hangers floating above piles of unwashed clothes on the floor. My medicine cabinet, a wall of misshapen bricks, open lipstick and soggy q-tips, waiting to topple over. 

I’m actually quite in denial when it comes to rot. Hoards of things left untouched should remain in stasis. Yet the apple, no longer attached to its life source, can no longer be fed the nourishment it needs. And bacteria breeds on all living things, so I should know better than to think we’re safe and sound. 

But nevermind my stinky clothes and sticky vegetables, how could something so sweet go bad? The maple syrup, sitting and never swaying, how could it be anything other than unaffected by the world around it? How could something so pleasing, only meant for my pancake and me, be poisoned and forcing me to retreat? 

Yet the syrup is replaceable. Most things are. The pancake was thrown in the trash, replaced by a fresh one. That’s not to say I didn’t want to eat the first one. That’s not to say I avoid spoiled things. That’s not to say there is no regret over my hope for perfect beings. But sometimes hope is indifference disguised in trust that we are strong. And sometimes syrup goes bad when left unopened for too long.