We’ve tried to fix it. Google. You Tube. Gaskets and tape and bad instructions that assume you know things a person who Googles LEAKY SHOWERHEAD couldn’t possibly know and drip drip drip.
We need to call the plumber.
Not a big deal. His name is Jonathan. Phone number is on his magnet on my fridge.
At first the drip was unbearable.
Drip, drip, drip, couldn’t sleep one more night with that wretched drip PLEASE figure this out tomorrow, will you PLEASE, I will.
And then tomorrow was last week and three soccer games and a cross country meet and two rehearsals and a wedding and a crisis at work and life life life.
Drip, drip, drip.
Just shut the bathroom door. You can hardly hear it.
And then shutting the bathroom door becomes the thing we do. The whole family is conditioned to shut the bathroom door against the drip. United. One nation under a leaky showerhead.
(Drip, drip, drip.)
We hardly hear it.
It could be a drip. Or a buzzing light. Or a board that rattles in the floor. Or a sombrero the boys left on your dresser that you knock off with your hip every third time you pass it and you keep putting it back on the dresser because WHO HAS TIME TO LEARN? Or it could be a coworker. Mostly nice, but then not so nice.
And at first it is unbearable.
Pick, pick, pick.
And then time passes.
And you can hardly hear it.
(Pick, pick, pick.)
Until there’s a price.
There is always a price, eventually
you will be standing there clutching your cosmic water bill wondering how hard it would have been to just
call the plumber.