The Seal

Three months and you haven't touched it.

The line around the tub is crumbling—

white turning gray,

the edge giving up

one small grain at a time,

and there's the spot, that corner,

where the dark has started,

where the mold is blooming

like something alive,

like something that grows

when you're not paying attention.

Every shower you see it.

Every shower you think: I should fix this.

Every shower you don't.

It's not hard.

You could scrape it out in an hour,

caulk a new line,

make it hold again.

But something in you

wants to watch it fail,

wants to measure the degradation,

wants to know exactly how long

something can hold

before it doesn't.

The caulk was supposed to seal.

That's the job of caulk—

to keep the water out,

to keep the boundary intact,

to be the line between

the inside and the outside,

the contained and the leaking.

And it did its job for years.

Until it didn't.

You could fix it.

Instead you're becoming an expert

in watching something you installed

to protect you

finally give up

and let the moisture in,

let the rot start,

let the seal fail

one small corner at a time.

Maybe tomorrow.

Maybe next week.

Maybe when it's so bad

you have no choice anymore.

For now you just shower

and look at the line

and think about how things

that are supposed to hold

eventually don't,

and how you knew that

the whole time,

and did nothing.