I’m 76 now, and some days it feels like a goddamn miracle I made it this far, especially with the shit I’ve pulled. My hands are gnarled, the knuckles like little rocks under stretched skin, and there are more liver spots than clear patches. They used to be strong, though. Could dig a trench all day, plant a hundred bushes, wrestle a pissed-off client’s rose bush out of the ground without a scratch. Most of my life I’ve been outside, dirt under my fingernails, sun on my neck until it felt like leather. So when I saw it, on the soft underside of my forearm, a little dark mole about the size of a ladybug’s head, I didn’t think much of it. Just another freckle, another sign of the years spent under the unforgiving sky. Then it grew. Just a tiny bit, mind you, but enough that one morning, shaving, I caught it in the mirror and it looked… different. Not round, not quite, more like an uneven smudge. The edges were blurry, not a crisp line like my usual spots. And something about the color, a mottled brown and black, made my stomach clench. I’ve seen enough of death, enough of illness in my time, to know the whispers of it. My father went quick, a heart attack, but my mother… she withered for years. The long, slow decay. I remember her asking me to scratch her back, her skin feeling like onion paper, thin and brittle. It sticks with you, that kind of slow decline. So, I did what any rational, slightly panicked old bastard would do. I booked three appointments. Dermatologist first, obviously. Then, because you can never be too careful, a general practitioner I’d never seen before, just to get a fresh pair of eyes on it. And then, because my mind started playing tricks on me – a deep, cold dread settling in my chest like a granite slab – I even called up a plastic surgeon. “Just for a consultation,” I told the secretary, my voice sounding strained, like I was trying to talk around a mouthful of gravel. She probably thought I was some vain old coot looking for a facelift. Let her. My bank account, usually a precarious tightrope walk between bills, took a hit. Didn't matter. I needed to know. I needed to make damn sure this wasn’t the beginning of the end. I sat in those waiting rooms, feeling the chill of the air conditioning on my thinning hair, listening to the muffled conversations and the drone of the television. Each time they called my name, my heart would give a lurch, a little hiccup in my chest. The doctors all had that same calm, clinical tone, that detached professional gaze. They poked, they prodded, they looked through their magnifying glasses. One of them, a young woman, very precise, asked about my sun exposure. “My whole damn life,” I told her, trying for a chuckle that came out more like a wheeze. And then, finally, the verdict. “Benign,” they all said, eventually. “Nothing to worry about. Just keep an eye on it.” Benign. The word hung in the air, tasting like fresh rain after a long drought. I walked out into the bright afternoon sun, feeling lighter than I had in weeks, but also… hollow. All that frantic energy, all that fear, just deflated. It wasn't the relief I expected. More like a quiet exhaustion. The world kept spinning, people walked past me, engrossed in their own little dramas, and I was just… there. Still here. Still seventy-six. Still got to figure out how to stretch this month’s pension to cover those goddamn specialist bills. And the mole? Still there. A small, dark reminder on my arm. A little flag, waving in the wind, saying, “Hey, old man. I’m still here. And I ain’t going anywhere… for now.” Sometimes I just stare at it, wondering what else is lurking, just beneath the surface. It's a funny old world, ain't it?