A Bathtub

A bathtub, a solid white bathtub, yellowing at the drain.

Its once exquisite beauty and grandeur washed away by the flow of time. It sits back on its metal legs like a frog near the water; perfectly still on a quiet night, and you can count on it being there tomorrow. A rusty chain connects the plug to the tap.

Forever together, but always apart.

This reminds me of both my parents – the bathtub laid neatly on the floor of their en suite as I was a child. An exquisite tub for an exquisite three-story house – they never realized that it would become a metaphor for how their life would pan out from then on.

Such exquisite things for them too, have been washed away by the flow of time, never to be seen again. Yet, no matter how rusted the chain that connects them may be – they are to stay together forever, no matter how far they drift apart.

Irrevocably attached, but maybe broken.

The object means nothing, but also maybe everything to me. It’s the bathtub that was in my house when I was younger than six, in a country I no longer live in – even more, it was a bathtub I never used.

Why does it stick into my memory all these years later?

Its grunge aesthetic of antique, dirty and beautiful have begun to resonate with aesthetics I’ve begun to describe myself with. Always clean, cleaner than most but always looking as if I haven’t showered. Coming from an extravagant background but looking all broken and old; a relic of the past. Just like the bathtub, my style isn’t “in” anymore, but the change feels almost impossible. I feel like I will remain, like that bathtub – you can count on me being there tomorrow.

Now on to find my plug.