"Bathroom Mats"
Growing up, I remember having these particular bathroom mats. They were made of what looked like flat noodles, each one a radically different color, that were weaved together to form a kind of vibrant tapestry, which would absorb water and momentarily spare your feet from the cold tiles of the bathroom floor. I never realized that these mats had disappeared until my mom recently put down similar, smaller ones.
She asked me if I had noticed. I hadn’t, but I said I had because she likes to accuse me of not paying attention to things that go on around the house and pretending to pick up on small details like new bathroom mats makes it seem like I am concerned with the minor happenings of our home, which I am sure my mother (somehow) extrapolates to me being concerned with my family. Regardless, it reminded me of the mats of my childhood.
For some reason, I had always thought the mats to be an Indian thing-a remnant of Indian culture that my parents had brought over to America-a small, seemingly insignificant artifact an immigrant unconsciously brings to their new home under the guise of practicality, but actually to make their new home feel more like their old one. I asked my mom if she had gotten the mats from one of the Indian grocery stores on 74th street.
She said she had bought them from a 99 cents store on Junction. Apparently, there was nothing Indian about them. She complained that, though they were half the size of the mats we used to have, they were still a dollar.
I know I’m only talking about bathroom mats, but it feels like part of my childhood died. Is that weird?
She asked me if I had noticed. I hadn’t, but I said I had because she likes to accuse me of not paying attention to things that go on around the house and pretending to pick up on small details like new bathroom mats makes it seem like I am concerned with the minor happenings of our home, which I am sure my mother (somehow) extrapolates to me being concerned with my family. Regardless, it reminded me of the mats of my childhood.
For some reason, I had always thought the mats to be an Indian thing-a remnant of Indian culture that my parents had brought over to America-a small, seemingly insignificant artifact an immigrant unconsciously brings to their new home under the guise of practicality, but actually to make their new home feel more like their old one. I asked my mom if she had gotten the mats from one of the Indian grocery stores on 74th street.
She said she had bought them from a 99 cents store on Junction. Apparently, there was nothing Indian about them. She complained that, though they were half the size of the mats we used to have, they were still a dollar.
I know I’m only talking about bathroom mats, but it feels like part of my childhood died. Is that weird?