Doing some quick math in my in-laws’ shower: My parents owned their house from the spring of 1994 until the fall of 2018. 14 years. No, 24.
I began visiting my in-laws in southwest Ohio in 2007. At what point will their home, which feels almost familiar as a place I grew up, and in some ways is, become a place I’ve been inhabiting for as long as my actual childhood home?
Technically the answer is 2031. But I feel it happening already. I come in, I say a soft hello to whomever is around. I serve myself some water to drink. Maybe a snack. I have hugs for whomever wants them. Little fanfare.
Photo by Scott Webb
I help myself to a shower if I want one before bed. What’s there to say about it? I was maybe 20 when I first used this shower. I’ve long been coming of age in this place I didn’t choose, where people I love welcome me and look after me and tolerate the collapse of my mind, body, spirit, and energy whenever I arrive for a visit “home.”
It has the same quirky faucet as my own childhood bathroom, one you have to pull down to toggle from bath to shower head. Both are plastic shells. My childhood shower’s shell had a ceiling to it that became claustrophobic as I grew to 6 feet tall in college. This shower doesn’t have that, but the floor creaks beneath it when I shift my weight.
I turn off the shower and reach past the curtain for my towel, which is hanging on a hook nearby. I don’t need to look for it or grope around. I am a guest with muscle memory of the premises.
Someone calls to me from outside the door. “We’re heading downtown,” my wife says. “Want to come?”
I don’t hesitate. “No,” I bellow back so she can hear me through the door. “I think I’m happy just being here.”