something I've realized

All of my posts seem to be about my grandparents. I'm sticking to writing what I know, and I can't help but be continually overwhelmed by the love and grace they had (have) for me. It sounds holy. It was.



Grammy told me she'd sit in the bathroom and talk to me while I bathed. She went in early to light the little gas stove over the toilet that made a low and healthy hum. I wasn't ready to bathe because I was too excited to be spending the night with my grammy and papa, but I wanted to be clean before I curled up on the couch and watched the Grand Ol' Opry. As the gush of the bath water filled my ears, I could also hear Papa whistling in the kitchen. I could feel the cold tile under my feet.
In my innocent and nascent five-year old body, I could still recognize the magic of that place. Only Grammy's bathroom could be crazy enough to have peach tile bordered by maroon tile on the walls paired with matching peach and maroon shells stubbornly peeling from the tub floor to keep little feet from slipping. Then there was the unique Tupperware tub on the sink counter that stored Papa's false teeth. That little testament to induce little girls into good oral hygiene worked for me. I could never even bring myself to touch his teeth's home. The best part had to be the toilet seat, though. Its padded covering was a luxury that only Grammy's house could afford. After she came in and claimed her seat, the gentle sssssssss of the seat escaped beneath her.
Grammy said I could pour bubbles in the bath. Momma never let me do that at home. I always found the pink bubble bath bottle ironically placed near the endless stack of Kotex under the bathroom sink. I didn't even know what Kotex was, but I never asked. I knew it was a part of being old that I would never prefer to my dancing ballerina doll or my collection of farmhouse Legos.
The bath was always too hot, but I liked it that way. If you get out a bath and your legs are red enough to hold white fingerprint impressions for more than five seconds, you've had a good one. I laid down in the tub so that my ears were just above the water level. I can't tell you any good conversation from this, but I know there were a few. I can remember the cracks in the ceiling. I can remember the tears in the liner curtain. I can remember inhaling the scent of the gas stove mixed with Grammy's endless rosewater smell. I can remember wishing my feet touched the other end of the tub. I know I felt mature when that finally happened. More than anything, I felt like home.