A Safe Haven

She'd never seen it as a safe haven before, but now, the bathroom on the second floor landing was the only place she could find silence. It was the only place she could sing and not be worried about being judged. She could sing and block out her worries, her fears of not being good enough.1

She sat on the floor of the bathroom, listening to the leaky faucet drip. She was trying to think of a song that matched the beat of the droplets, but couldn't. So instead, she just hummed a tuneless song, thinking up lyrics in her mind. There, in the semi-darkness of the bathroom, she was alone. She intended to enjoy it. 2

Eventually, boredom struck. She couldn't sit in the bathroom forever, and she knew it. There was only one working bathroom at the time in their house, and her siblings wouldn't appreciate her hogging it. So she stepped out onto the landing and called good night to her parents. Her mother's voice, tinged with sleep, wished her pleasant dreams, while her father's French accented voice wished her a "bon soir."3

It was late that night before someone else intruded on the youngest girl's sanctuary. Her brother, older by three years and just starting high school, woke with an urge to use the bathroom. While there, he was suddenly wide awake and knew he'd never be able to sleep again. He sat down on the edge of the bathtub and stared at the dripping faucet, taken in by its rhythmic dripping. Suddenly, inspiration struck, and he tip-toed across the landing to his bedroom, grabbing one of his many cameras and a tripod. He quickly set these up in the bathroom, in front of the sink with its leaky faucet. 4

There, he spent what seemed like ages setting up a small flashlight so that it illuminated the faucet from behind, but couldn't be seen otherwise. There, he snapped photo after photo, trying to find the perfect moment when the droplet fell. He knew what he wanted it to look like in his mind. The baby droplet, already fat with all the accumulated water, about to fall, but still tethered to the faucet. He wanted an image in which it was obvious what would happen, but you still find yourself holding your breath and waiting. 5

Finally, just as the sun was coming up, he yawned. In the hundreds of photos he'd taken, there had to be one that was perfect. But they could wait to be reviewed on his computer in the morning. He stretched, trying to get all the kinks that came with being bent over the camera for so long out of his back. Then he took his flashlight, his camera, his tripod, and disappeared as quickly as he had first appeared. 6

The bathroom door left ajar, the perfect opportunity for someone to lightly push it open, to get in and take a nap on the bathroom rug. Maks lay down, his golden fur spread out over the floor, and put his head on his paws. He gave a large sigh, the kind only a dog can manage, to show he was content. The early morning sun was shining through the small window, warming his back. Maks closed his eyes and relaxed, listening to the dripping of the faucet. If it bothered him, he didn't show it, and was soon asleep.7

And so the sun kept going up. The dew on the grass soon evaporated, the neighborhood woke up. The father got up, stretched, kicked the dog out of the bathroom. Maks ambled off to find another napping place in the sun, not upset at all at being kicked out. The father turned the dripping from the faucet into a steady flow of water, using it to brush his teeth and shave. He turned it off, but it still dripped. He made a mental note to mention it to his wife, so she could remind him to fix it sometime. 8

The dripping had it's usual effect on the father too. It lulled him into a sense of peace, of harmony, and reminded him of his beloved France, with the small house by the river. He kept meaning to take his family there someday, but there was never any time or money. He shook his head, snapping out of his daydreams, and finished getting ready for his day. 9

The oldest daughter made her appearance in the late morning, taking a quick shower and not even making a note of the leaky faucet. She had too much on her mind to notice, or care. Her characters argued in her mind, trying for her attention. One character tried to tell her that she had his name all wrong, that it was something else completely. She chuckled to herself quietly, laughing at whoever said that in writing, the author controls the characters. 10

She opened the small window to let in a fresh breeze and
some more light. Wrapping her towel around herself tightly, she couldn't resist drawing the shape of a heart in the mirror fog. She looked around one last time, sighed, and went back to her waiting laptop in her room, still open to yesterdays musings about her characters and their dramas.11

Later in the day, the mother came into the bathroom with a
wrench and some cleaning supplies. She washed the counter, clearing it of everything her children had left there. She pulled aside the shower curtain, letting the bathtub dry out from the eldest girl's shower. She scrubbed away mold, washed the rug, and finally, fixed the leaking faucet. The rhythmic dripping would not capture any more memories or artistic creations. 12

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