As a clumsy toddler, seated in deep concentration on the cold cement of the basement floor, I studied the ancient metal visage of my mother’s old vacuum cleaner. It had a protruding nose that reminded me of the Bat-mobile and it was a dark, flat grey. On either side of the nose extended the symmetrically formed wings, which were made to cover the maximum amount of floor—under which a spinning broom would whirl, sucking up sundry out-of-place flecks and specks in a process—which I did not quite understand yet. Upon growing bored of the green and blue floral pattern that adorned the cloth of the dust bag, I carefully stood up and marched toward the lime deposits that decorated a ring around the shower drain. I slowly took account of the experience of looking down at the dry floor beneath the faucet and how it differed from the experience of taking my first shower that same day. Dad had stood beside me and taught me how to bathe myself. There was freedom in learning a skill that would ultimately pass the responsibility of bathing from Mom to me. Not knowing the consequence, I had looked up into the faucet, which seemed to be indeterminably out of reach. What I had felt against my mouth and eyes wasn’t the soft, cool rains of springtime, but hard, hot drops of water, which blinded me and stung my unsuspecting skin. I had hung my head and rubbed at my eyes as if in defeat against this new challenge when Dad stepped in front of the sputtering stream and turned the pressure down. I hadn’t yet learned of the sore muscles and scratched skin that a day of work could cause, nor of the relief a hot shower brought to my father and would one day bring to me. “Is this better?” Dad had asked. It had been. Letting my eyes refocus on the metal grating of the drain, I had one memory that stood out among the rest. It had been the moment that I wiped the water from my eyes to greet the cooler droplets, giving me a new feeling altogether. “See a bug down there?” Dad asked. He found me staring at the drain, hunched over like a tribal hunter, enjoying a hard-earned meal. I shook my head and ran toward his workbench. Thinking that I must have looked foolish lost in thought over a shower drain, I quickly picked up a brown metal object with four circular holes in it. “What’s this?” I asked Dad. “Those are brass knuckles.” He said. “What do they do?” I wondered aloud. “I’ll show you.” He took the object and placed it in his calloused, sunburned hand. I hadn’t imagined that those massive holes could be made for someone’s fingers, but the knuckles fit his hand well. In mock suspense, Dad punched at the air, displaying how he would protect his family against any would-be intruders. I understood. I knew that they would be too big for me when he handed them back, but I tried to put them on anyway. For me, I decided, this device would be more of a hindrance. I would stick to my wooden sword. “Come on, buddy,” Dad said, “It’s time to go to bed.” Dad walked over to his record player and turned it off. I followed him up the stairs as close as I could to escape the creeping darkness that shot out from the “click” of the light-switch. With a kiss on the forehead and a short, scripted prayer, I was comfortably in bed. My little brother Adam had already gone to sleep and, after discovering that such a thing existed, required a nightlight glowing softly in the corner. I preferred the dark. Our quilt was decorated with countless anonymous baseball players. I jerked it over my head. Under the covers, I flipped the pillow over because I preferred the cold side. I few seconds into my restful bliss, I felt a little hand on my shoulder. “You’ll smother,” Adam said groggily, “You can’t breathe.” A little bit of Mom’s paranoia was keeping me up. I pulled the cover from my face. The air felt refreshingly crisp. I closed my eyes and finally fell asleep beside my brother.
The next thing I recall was sitting alone on the couch in the basement. All of the lights were off and the time glowed faintly green from a digital clock. I could tell that it was raining outside because of the warping and wavy image of the outside world through the window of the basement door. Between where I sat and the blue light from the window sat Mom’s old vacuum cleaner. Its headlight was on and it appeared much larger than usual. Frightened, I gazed at the vacuum, hoping that it would not come alive—when I heard a knock at the door. Cautiously, I crept past the beast toward a hopefully familiar face. Though water was consistently falling upon the window, blurring my vision, I could tell that it was my older brother, Eric, holding Adam. Their faces were distorted and strange beyond the rain-covered glass. Eager to have their company, I opened the door. In an instant, a torrent of rain splashed against my face. It wasn’t like the soft, cool rains of springtime, but hard and fast and blinding. Looking up, I saw the distorted faces of my brothers as they stood completely, hauntingly still. I tried and tried to wipe the water from my eyes, but it was impossible! No matter how much I swiped at my face, my brothers stood, faces warped, unmoving. A moment later, I woke up.
It was a clear morning and Adam had gone down to breakfast. I hopped down to the floor and stretched out on the carpet. I rolled back and forth on the tightly knit carpeting, giving my limbs each a turn in stretching out. After I felt satisfied, I dashed past my chalkboard, to the bathroom where I climbed upon my stool and looked at myself in the mirror. I was clear like the day. I reached with all the length of my arm to turn on the cold water. Tiny drops of water ricocheted up from the bottom of the porcelain basin as I placed my hands into the stream. Catching as much as I could, I threw the water into my face. Triumphantly wiping it from my eyes, my eyelashes were damp and a little sticky. I viewed myself in the mirror with even more clarity. I experienced the still-enduring wonder of focusing directly on my own eyes. I turned my head to the left and to the right, but my eyes remained on themselves. Wiping my eyes again, I jumped down from the stool.
The day before, I had wiped hot water from my eyes in the shower. Five years from the shower drain, I would wipe salty ocean water from my eyes upon submerging into that vast expanse for the first time. Eight years from the brass knuckles, I would wipe my eyes from the water of my baptism into a faith I did not yet appreciate. 10 years from swinging my wooden sword, I would wipe the sweat from my eyes during my first tennis match, swinging the racquet ferociously. 14 years from my brother’s nightlight, I would wipe away the tears of my first shattered dream. As tears fall on a page, I lift my head to see myself in the mirror again. I smile. I wipe my eyes. With all the passion and energy of my mind, I grasp the beauty of renewal.
