The Whole Damn House

…The house I grew up in is old. My mom told me one time it was at least 80 years old, and that was at least 20 years ago. It smelled old, but don’t tell Mom because she’ll take it personally. The smell wasn’t of dirt or a symptom of an unkempt house as she would assume, but it was impossible to get rid of, an unrelenting must that seeped into the blankets and pillows, twice as much because most of the extra bedding was stored in a dank corner behind the couch. Parts of the house seemed to lack a decent foundation, particularly the bathroom. The bathroom was the worst, especially in the morning. I remember staying in the shower under the hot water for so long my skin reddened and was dry for the rest of the day just to avoid the inevitable goose-pimples brought on when I opened the shower doors and all the winter air came rushing in. In the spring, the bathroom was warmer but prone to fungus. Multiple times I saw little white mushrooms sprout on a moist bathroom towel positioned around the base of the tub to compensate for a leaky seal. They were gross, repulsive, stigmatic – they made me feel poorer than I was and looking back, still do. They also fascinated me in the grotesque way that humans get fascinated by gross things. I think it was the incongruousness of their white umbrellas against the ordinary, domestic bath towel, blue with fringes on either side. When the shower got going and the room filled with steam, it felt suffocating, nearly dank. But then the washer or dryer would kick in and the whole room would hum with the sound. I would sit on the toilet in my towel taking in the heat and the noise, my ears vibrating and for some reason that made me feel safe. In some ways…

Put a towel under it!

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