Shower Cry Theory
It is my own personal belief that you are not truly sad unless you can successfully cry in the shower. You see, there's something about having warm tears purge from your eyes, rolling down, following the curves of your face, that contain the satisfying reassurance that yes, everything is, in fact, falling apart and, this is sadness. But in the shower, this satisfaction is lost amongst the thousands of beads drenching you whole. A metaphorical experience that can be construed as the embodiment of the phrase, “when you cry, the world cries with you.” Yet, even after this humbling perspective, there lives the Shower Cry--a heart stinging that hot water couldn't pierce. I didn't cry when we finally made it home, back to the mountain. No, I laid in the shower with the infamously luke warm water, that isn't warm enough to be relieving and not cold enough to force you out, rolling down my face, thinking absolutely nothing. I stared at the things left behind--Emmy's wash cloth, Paul's free, broken shampoo, Paige's cranberry scented body wash that no one will use because of the chemicals. I began to feel the weight of everything. How heavy the water was on me. How satisfying to be in one place, not moving. In the evening, just as I cracked the first beer in the driveway with Bacchi, Ali and Sam, I receive the PSA announcement from our landlord via text—we have 30 days to move. We all climb up on the roof, my favorite spot of the Yacht Club, and let the weight sink in. Ali laughs unexpectedly, “Can we have one normal day?”. I advise her not to start any conversation with, “So, whaddya do this summer” when she returns to school, for fear of the same question returned. I take a swig from the can and start scheming. Who doesn’t love a good puzzle?