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The old toilet sits in the garage now, waiting to be taken away.
It sits down here on its side, amidst the oil stains, old bent nails and
dryer lint, the tank separated and leaning againt the bowl, useless to the
world now. Fine, durable porcelain, cast aside ignominiously.
Not all toilets look alike. When I was very young, I could only
recognize two types; the kind in peoples homes, and the kind found at
school and other large buildings. But I became very intimate with this
fixture that now rests a-kilter on the cement floor. After years of
cleaning the encrusted stains around the base, of sitting and comparing
the quality of different toilet paper, and gripping tightly, face forward
into its bowels uncounted times, I could pick this one out of thousands.
Sitting on the garage floor in the dust, I recognized the rust
stains on the flanges of the base where the bolts go, beneath the bulbous
bowl. I remember how comforting its nearness was during my bouts with
food poisoning as I lay down on the bath mat, my digestive system knotted
in toxic spasms. I would sense its solidity, feel the coolness radiating
from its water filled body. The faint trickling sound of the slow leak caressing my mind, putting me in a clear mountain stream, sitting under a
smooth white rock and feeling the cool water flowing over me.
In the light of the bare 100 watt bulb hanging from the rafters,
it looked dingier than it had in the bathroom. Was it always this yellow?
Had my eyes been bleached with familiarity all these years? I felt sad for
our old toilet. But I would not reveal my sadness to anyone. My family
would not understand, much as they do not understand most of what I care
for. I would mourn the family throne privately, wondering if anyone else
had fond feelings for a toilet in this constipated city.
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