My Shower Curtain
Karenza Ryan
Sometimes I think I'm just a drop of water, left
on the showerhead from a nice hot rush of
liquid. I'm lukewarm, wasteful, and everyone
knows I'm eventually going to fall. The only
surprise they expect is when it is going to
happen happen. But this is the story of how you caught me.
I was twenty five but I acted nineteen and looked forty. It was the drugs. Most people would say I had already hit rock bottom. Some of those people would say it was too late for me to come back up. They said you didn't want just some coke addict in your home. You said I wasn't just some coke addict. You said I was a genius in training. They laughed.
Rehab took three times. I screamed at, stole from, and hurt you. Yet your door never locked. Not once. And every time I said I was better you nodded. You weren't stupid, but you didn't act like I was either. Once I came back for good.
I was kicked out from community college. I heard the phone conversation even though I wasn't suppose to be listening in. "Where's your genius now?" A harsh voice asked. I started sobbing, but you made sure I heard you say "Right here", before you comforted me. I'll never forget that. Two words that saved my life. Two words that were our whole relationship, not only summed up but in its entirety.
I remember the one time you ever walked away. I said that this, me, was all your fault. You were angry, and I don't think it was because you thought I was being deceitful or dishonest. When we talked about it after I knew your words were planned. "I would be proud to have you be all my fault." It made me both angry and sad.
I said I wanted to be a painter. Our father said to be realistic. You said I could be both. For every hundred dollars I earned waitressing you gave me an hour uninterrupted painting, and the space and supplies I'd need to do so. Eventually, I could sell my paintings to get more time to paint. I think you were prouder than when you yourself finished law school.
I opened a painting studio. That was only a few days ago. You gave me a gift, but I'll cherish the card longer. Your sprawling, sincere handwriting saying "You are passionate, inspirational, and I can't wait to see you fly".
Sometimes I still think of myself as the little drop of water. But you, you're my shower curtain. Catching me on gentle fabric and giving me an easy ride to where I am meant to be. That's why I'm gifting you my very first painting from the studio. A leaky faucet, a wet curtain, an empty bathtub. People will think it's cocaine again that made me entitle it "The Love of a Sister". I just want you to know that you're the reason I'm here to get any words at all, besides an obituary.
I just hope, though it's too much to ask, you'll consider it genius.
on the showerhead from a nice hot rush of
liquid. I'm lukewarm, wasteful, and everyone
knows I'm eventually going to fall. The only
surprise they expect is when it is going to
happen happen. But this is the story of how you caught me.
I was twenty five but I acted nineteen and looked forty. It was the drugs. Most people would say I had already hit rock bottom. Some of those people would say it was too late for me to come back up. They said you didn't want just some coke addict in your home. You said I wasn't just some coke addict. You said I was a genius in training. They laughed.
Rehab took three times. I screamed at, stole from, and hurt you. Yet your door never locked. Not once. And every time I said I was better you nodded. You weren't stupid, but you didn't act like I was either. Once I came back for good.
I was kicked out from community college. I heard the phone conversation even though I wasn't suppose to be listening in. "Where's your genius now?" A harsh voice asked. I started sobbing, but you made sure I heard you say "Right here", before you comforted me. I'll never forget that. Two words that saved my life. Two words that were our whole relationship, not only summed up but in its entirety.
I remember the one time you ever walked away. I said that this, me, was all your fault. You were angry, and I don't think it was because you thought I was being deceitful or dishonest. When we talked about it after I knew your words were planned. "I would be proud to have you be all my fault." It made me both angry and sad.
I said I wanted to be a painter. Our father said to be realistic. You said I could be both. For every hundred dollars I earned waitressing you gave me an hour uninterrupted painting, and the space and supplies I'd need to do so. Eventually, I could sell my paintings to get more time to paint. I think you were prouder than when you yourself finished law school.
I opened a painting studio. That was only a few days ago. You gave me a gift, but I'll cherish the card longer. Your sprawling, sincere handwriting saying "You are passionate, inspirational, and I can't wait to see you fly".
Sometimes I still think of myself as the little drop of water. But you, you're my shower curtain. Catching me on gentle fabric and giving me an easy ride to where I am meant to be. That's why I'm gifting you my very first painting from the studio. A leaky faucet, a wet curtain, an empty bathtub. People will think it's cocaine again that made me entitle it "The Love of a Sister". I just want you to know that you're the reason I'm here to get any words at all, besides an obituary.
I just hope, though it's too much to ask, you'll consider it genius.