rose-colored tile

Often as a child she had walked into a bathroom and always concluded that if she must be confined to one room, this was by far the superior choice. In the year of Saturn return, abruptly but not surprisingly, she found that this matter-of-fact had never wavered; and so robustly burst into her mind.

A tub obviously shifted into a bed, add a slab of wood and she had a dinning room. A toilet was a night-stand waiting to happen, and the sink would be the perfect place to rinse off freshly picked tomatoes. Cooking hadn’t been part of the consistent observation; unless it was boiled in the shower after a toilet had been flushed. Luckily going raw would be cool by the time she was 25, so unforeseen challenges easily dissipated.

Many truths had turned to mysteries, many lines in the sand had been crossed, but this had never needed to be contested. So the childish conclusion presented itself  while she looked at the rose-pink tiles that presently encased her. She smiled. Later she would realize that in its innocence, this memorial obscurity was a reminder of an unemotional & good moment in her childhood.

She deeply enjoyed her life and couldn’t imagine, let alone believe, what anything other than it could be. Not that she wanted to live forever; just that she would so dearly miss what had made her and sustained her, but at the last moment would leave her without thought or regret. Its consistency made it easy for her to love it more than anything she had ever known.

Not merely did her life matter to her, but all the living had importance and vivacity which astounded her. What was the source of all this energy? What was the motivation of all things living to perpetuate? It was incredible that a life so tangible to her was unrecognizable from the mere distance of the moon, let alone any matter in the surrounding galaxies. Life was so grand, but so small; so important, but so trivial; so phenomenal, but so common and therefore generally non-respected. with the view of a distant horizon of success, the intricate and grand monotony of mere survival and presence was virtually invisible.

But, if opulence could be obsolete in the sight of the ordinarily, life as a whole earthly unit might be able to last a little longer. She didn’t have specific reasons to see life progress; it was difficult and cumbersome. But the smell of pines, an afternoon breeze, waking up to the song of a Finch; she just found them so nice. And anything naturally capable of delighting her also forced her into moments of contentment. She wanted it to last so that everything else could find its moments.

The only way she saw humanity joining her in these respects would be through an overpowering shift. Most likely some degree of apocalypse. Call her too optimistic for her own good, but big dreams can happen. And if scarce shelter had to be parceled, she would easily still be at home. She had been staking out claw-foots for decades.