In the middle of a rocky plain/jungle hybrid sits the asymmetrical, angular version of a “u”, born in the early 1950’s. The aviary in the backyard is commonly and lovingly referred to as the playhouse in the young voice we reserve for the pets. The two owned birds and the two that are our foster children both scream and mumble in the back bedroom you can only get to by way of our modern-retro redone kitchen. Only half the cabinets and drawers have pulls, because my arm got tired and my wrist began to hurt. Windows next to the fireplace are like smooth cellophane on a casserole dish, exposing the weeds and crumpled brick that make up what, in a mansion, would be called a courtyard. The cat sits on the mantle, the unframed cap-and-gown photograph of me resting tilted against her back, since she has knocked it over.
It’s strange, though. None of the rooms feel to me the way this one does, mean as much to me as this one does at times. The sage colored, tulip wallpaper seems to exude the fragrance of summer as steam curls around the light. The white satin and nickel fixtures hold up each aspect of my daily life. This one my sanity, the one to my left my sensitivity, and the small one up by the window holds my washcloth. The yellow tiled shower is both ugly and convenient. Now that the surrounding tones have softened, the yellow turns from a ghastly, almost putrid hue to pure softness. The yellow is of dewy daffodils in the spring. When the sun fights its way through the frosted pane it transforms the daffodils to buttercups and the occasional yellow tulip.
I am standing in the shower with my eyes closed. My hair is swollen with heat and moisture, my fingers and toes as wrinkled as the corners of a smiling old woman’s eyes. The steam envelopes my body and mind as my thoughts swim against the current of shower water and into the showerhead. Thoughts become droplets that tumble out a few moments later and once again impregnate my brain. Everything from what pepperoni tastes like and how many times over I fold my pants, to what I wanted to eat for dinner last night but didn’t. It’s me trying to fit a giant mass of tangled spaghetti into the neat sections of a tackle box. I continue to think as and breathe in steamy thoughts and gently floating concepts.
I have opened my eyes and bent down to shave my legs. The cool air from the window swoops in and over the shower door and the warm air from the shower rushes to meet it. They collide. I can sense them, their struggle, smell it as though two pies of conflicting flavors were baked elsewhere and brought into the same room to cool. The vapors swirl and spiral, and the sharp contrast causes me to lose focus on the task at hand.
I nick myself, though it’s still more like shaving than anything else, and a rather lengthy piece of skin detaches from my body. A ribbon of blood descends down my shin bone, mixing with water and streaming around the sides of my calf like offshoots of a branch. It swirls down the drain in a completely unoriginal fashion.