By Morgan Hannah, Life & Style Editor
It was a broad-lipped, wide white tub basking in the frosted light of the window to its right. One that exuded wealth. Much nicer than my parents’ narrow, tan tub back at home. The bathtub sat off to the right in the en suite of my Grama’s bedroom, the walls of the en suite were painted a faded dusty rose with a white trim. Her towel rack always contained stacks of too-fresh towels—the ones you find in Bath & Beyond that leave lint on a freshly washed body. Surrounding three sides of the bathtub was a built-in counter with many glass bowls and jars filled full of seashells, bars of soap in the shapes of various flowers, scents, and small, round pieces of colourful glass. I remember admiring them, but never wanting to touch anything. Not out of fear of repercussion, but rather out of respect for a setup that never truly seemed to fit the warm, caring old woman that was my Grama. She always seemed to have powdery soft possessions that didn’t seem, to me, to be hers. As if her mother, whom I had never met, passed them down to her.
I wasn’t sure that her soaps and towels ever got used to be honest, like I was the only one to ever have a bath in this large tub. But they must’ve, they were swapped out occasionally enough, and nothing ever collected dust. Nervous of messing up the precise display lining the bathtub, I gingerly climbed in and out with as much care as I could each bath, conscious of wherever the droplets of water from my body landed. I would occupy as little surface area as I could, sulking cross-legged in the lukewarm water that barely came over my knees.