Mushroom Goddess

My grandfather once told me he was happy to be retired. He was able to go to the horse track any time he wanted. I saw a bit of depth in those still sharp eyes. I saw sadness. In those pools echoed the regret of deeds undone. Of potential never realized. Of worth not cashed in.

I visited grandpa years later. It's amazing how quickly time passes. He was older, I was in my 20's. It was his birthday, 80 years old. We gathered around in a sterile, barren room with overly used long tables, the type you see at public functions with so much tape remnants, and straggly bits of crepe paper clinging to the memory of some party.

This table had bits of some earlier meal shared by many, as the previous occupants of this room had been less than fastidious. Grease still shined in a non-pattern across one section of the table, while my end held the uncoveted fallen of hastily eaten pizza.

A mushroom lay posed, perfectly cut, decorated with the right amount of sauce, drizzled with a dash of cheese. An amazing gift from the Mushroom Goddess, it was left here, uncared for, uncleaned, unpraised.

I looked at grandpa, blowing out his candles as he looked at so many strangers. His robe was open, his diaper sagged.

We were all uncomfortable, and eventually grandpa was escorted back to bed. Our goodbyes were unanswered. I looked at everyone cleaning up. I ate the mushroom. It was unfair to leave it behind.