Original

The bathroom in my original house opened onto the kitchen. This is an old house, WWI tract, much modified. Walls pulled down, cabinetry added, paint so thick it no doubt added to the structural integrity. So, the kitchen was right there. And because of grandfathering laws, no fan, just an open grill up near the ceiling for ventilation. No lock, either, until I was about twelve, then just a hook and eye affair. And a careless father.

Usually painted a high gloss pale yellow. Threadbare towels on the rack behind the toilet, my mother's Blue Grass dusting powder on the tank lid, various throw rugs on the floor over the years, white vinyl shower curtain with orange mildew. The tub with touchy spigots and erratic gouts of various temperatures. Two mirrored doors on the tiny medicine cabinets that would reflect each other if moved just right.

I do remember the potty chair, and how frightening the toilet was in comparison.

I remember sitting on the edge of the tub, dressed mind, the door open, as mom began to tell me Uncle Walt had died, when my father shouted over her shoulder, "Walt's Dead." Bastard.

I remember pinching my hand in the door to the towel storage, and knowing I would have a mark there all my life. I do. So far, I should add.

I remember reaching up to wash my hands in the sink, and playing with talcum powder in the water when no one seemed to be watching.

I remember a fist sized, oval cylindrical metal thing, that I was told was for sharpening razors. I'm not sure I believe this. But it did have a little crank that turned the inner gears.

I remember having what I now know were migraines, with the light off, and the ambient light from the back hallway coming through the grill.

The room that always left me a little anxious.