Wednesday, February 16, 2005

It's the inside that counts

I remember when I was 12, I noticed that in the corner of the shower, where the glass tiles met ceramic, there was a mushroom. It had bunkered down in the grout on the side of the tub and began to grow. I showed it to my mum and she responded with the same "Oh" as when I noticed the Maple seedling beginning to grow through the vent on the hood of our Volvo station wagon. Maybe it was the hippy in my mum rearing up, not wanting to take the life away from something that was so alive, or maybe it was her just being lazy, but it, like the maple tree, stayed there. I don't remember the day it went away, I don't think I even noticed. I don't know if my mum finally got around to cleaning the spot in the tiles that it had come to call home, or if it finally drowned in the water from the excessive showers I had come accustomed to taking, but after time, it like the seedling, dissapeared. Gone.

I had a shower this morning, as I do every morning. I always have my best moments in the shower. I write poetry. I come up with stories. Always when there isn't a pen and paper. Just like when I first wake up. Always my best moments. I have now come to keeping a journal right by my pillow, so when I wake up, I can jot down my thoughts before they escape. I can't do that in the shower. As soon as I step out, they go down the drain with the bath water. To the sewer for the rats to enjoy. I stood there this morning, under the water, watching as it fell over my body, creating streams down my breasts and stomach. Letting it wash over my head. Cupping my hands in the classic commerical shower pose, and splashing my face. It was in this cliched position that I remembered the mushroom, and I looked into the corner, now empty. I then began my usual habit of counting the tiles. I used to as a kid, and sometimes still do, group them into clusters of five in my head, then six. But mostly fives. I've always liked five. It seems such a happy number. I was doing this when I realised that in the time I have been away from home, somebody had cleaned the grout. The grout has been bleached and is now so white that no mushroom would reside in this shower. Somebody has scrubbed even down into the tightest corner. Probably with a toothbrush. Probably my mother. And that got me to thinking about the other things that have changed since I left home. The little things. The new coat of paint in my parents room and the bathroom. The new pictures hanging on the walls. The new spatula in the kitchen. The new toilet seat. Then that got me thinking, if this house, this solid building that does not grow or shrink with age can change so much in such a short period of time, have I changed? Am I a different person than the one my parents said goodbye to at the Vancouver International Airport last May? I don't look different on the outside minus the new peircings and tattoo. But then neither does the house, minus a new tree out front. So maybe I've changed on the inside. Like this house.I can't pinpoint it but I think I have. Gotten older and I like to think a little wiser...and maybe lost some weight? But the physical stuff doesn't matter anymore. I've almost grown out of that. Matured a bit...maybe...nah...But, like I've always been told...It's what's on the inside that counts