The Mole
On the left side of my face, just below my lip, rests a mole. It’s not unsightly or anything, and I’m very careful to remove the hairs that grow like weeds. It’s a ritual I attend to at least twice per week, starting with an electric razor and then finishing with a pair of tweezers. One by one, I watch those tiny weeds fall into the sink, and then down the drain they go, washed away to some unknown location where they can fix themselves to the bottom of the sea and regrow themselves as fish food. It’s my contribution to the great circle of life.
The other day, during my biweekly mole excavation, I noticed something that had been unnoticed before. Those weren’t hairs growing out of my mole. They were tiny people, and as I cut them with my razor, I heard them cry the most diminutive of cries, cries you couldn’t hear unless you really listened.
I’m not sure how I heard their tiny voices over the whirling of my razor, and I couldn’t quite make out what they were saying, but I’m fairly certain they were in pain. I contemplated adding the white noise of the exhaust fan, or possibly creating a rushing waterfall out of the faucet to drown both their cries and their bodies. But I just couldn’t bring myself to do it. They had committed no wrong—other than being unpaying tenants. But what could they pay me, other than the tiny money they might have possessed in their tiny pockets.
Turning off my razor, I set it down and then gently swept the little people clinging for life in the porcelain sink into a soft washcloth. I tried my best not to harm them, but even my slightest touch was a crushing blow for the ant-sized creatures.
With no microscope or magnifying glass at hand, I had to rely on my naked eye to get a better look at my former tenants. Even holding the cloth as close to my face as I could, I still couldn’t make out any distinguishing features in any of them. They all just looked like tiny hair follicles. But I could hear their cries, and I swore I saw them gather in tightly around their fallen friends. Then, there was a moment of silence.
From the hallway I heard my wife call for me, wondering if I looked presentable enough yet. I said a silent prayer for the vanquished little ones, set down the washcloth, and studied the small people still growing in my mole. Could I really bring myself to finish them off just for the sake of looking presentable? They cowered in silent fear, and my wife again called for me. Knowing she wouldn’t understand, I quickly restarted my razor and finished them off, hoping that the little fellows believed in reincarnation.
