Dear World,
There was a green bathtub, a green toilet, and a green sink–all the earthy, muted shade of sage from the psychedelic 60s. A peach hand towel was always slung neatly over the sink. Below, an outdated gold heat register rose up from the floor, fashioned with an open/shut switch on the side that I remember twiddling with between my toes whenever I sat on the toilet. An antique portable heater was wedged in between the sink and toilet, and if you accidentally bumped it while flushing the stool, it would squeak and wobble. There was a wire caddy on the edge of the bathtub, holding floral and sugary scented body washes and scrubs, and a large ivory basin on the back of the toilet that always held a can of vanilla air freshener. Beside the door frame hung a fragile gold Christmas ornament that said “Nebraska,” cracked and bent along one side because I’d accidentally knocked it off and stepped on it one summer when I stayed with my grandparents. The only light came from a small window above the towel rack that you had to stand on your tiptoes to see out of. And on really hot days, you’d have to turn the crank to let fresh air in.
The tub itself was smaller than average. You’d have to scrunch your knees up when you emerged yourself in the bubbly water. The only temperatures of water in the house were bone-chilling ice and peel-your-skin-off hot. It took many years and precise talent to finally master how to draw a perfectly-temperatured bath. In this tight five-foot-by-five-foot space, chocolate and rust carpet covered the floors, cushioning your feet when you stepped out of the bath. And if you kept the door shut for just a few minutes, the mirror would fog up and you could create your own tiny steam room.
I’ll always remember that bathtub. That room was my favorite place in the house. And maybe that’s why my grandma chose to take her last breath in it.
Sincerely,
Britt
