Bath

I don't like baths. I never have. I'm trying my hardest to think of a time when I enjoyed taking a bath, and I can honestly say I have never had a good time in the bathtub. My earliest memory associated with a bath is my mother bathing me in our kitchen sink. Yes, my memory is that good. Which is a big part of why I am who I am. I have very old, very detailed, multi-sensory memories. You'd imagine that would be a wonderful thing and sometimes it is, for example, I can remember my Grandfathe who passed away when I was one and a half in great detail, right down to the smell of the over ripened cherries in the crumpled brown paper bag he would bring home after closing the fruit stand for the day, but I can also remember the nervous tension coming from my mother and grandmother right before he walked in the door. A great memory is not always so great.

Anyway, back to the kitchen sink. I was about 2 years old and my mother, father, brother and myself lived in an old, but clean, 4 room apartment. The decor was very earthy in colr and style, a lot of brown and orange and yellow, a lot of leaf and flower prints, and plants on every windowsill. My mom loved plants. There was a wall in our living room that looked like a jungle, with plants hanging over, sitting on top of and climbing around a very large, silver radiator and a window with a leaky air conditioner in it. The plants did a nice job of hiding not so nice stuff.

The kitchen was small but served 2 purposes. Half of the room housed yellow-gold colored appliances and had brown, yellow and orange flowered wall paper on it, the other half of the room was