cylinders, bubbles, lines

I came home the night before last and saw plastic barrels in the bathtub. To soak our feet in, my mother said. I stared at her, at a loss for words. It was neither something I could come up with an answer for nor an idea I wanted to ponder too much. It seems that every time I come home some new poor man's treasure claims its hold in my home, seemingly plunging us still further into something that denotes a poor living.

We are middle class; definitely above the poverty line, at least. Yet I have no idea why my parents hold on to these things, and come up with more ways to make our one-bedroom look as much like a garage sale as possible. Today I was digging for my suitcase amid the pile of furniture near my parents' bed, when I found that their sheet was laced with inch-wide holes, lined along the same two lines that make up a soft pink and blue checkerboard pattern, like some artistically arranged bubbles. It's a sheet that I remember well, which translates to at least 13 some years of wear and tear. They need new sheets, I think, as my subconscious pours guiltily over my recent purchases of frivolity.

None of these things should bother me. And they don't bother me in the worst way possible, that is, they're not an embarrassment to me. But they make me guilty, and they don't have to exist at all. At least I don't think their existence is necessitated.

When I was little and complained about becoming collateral damage to my mom's frugality (I was the only kid who didn't have an allowance, which meant no snacks to share with friends...and eventually, no friends who would share them with me. Tit for tat), my uncle told me that if my mom weren't the way she was, we wouldn't have what we have now. That might be true. That is definitely true. Even now, invisible wires tighten around us to support every new project: my tuition, plans to move out, maybe a trip back to China. Her trace runs silent and everywhere. Something is piled still higher amid all the clutter, and it's all her little tricks that turn our possibilities into something lived. Still, I feel like the wires can be relaxed a little bit. Maybe my parents too.

At the very least, they should get new sheets.

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