My bathroom looks the same as you saw it last. The dogwood branch, sprayed white, festooned with earrings & bright beads, a lavender sea fan netting a pair of miniature pointe shoes. "Where's the john?" Mother used to joke looking for simple porcelain, ordinary spigots at the sink. You used to drag friends clear across the living room to the place where I prepare myself to face the world outside. I rise daily to that world with memories of another: Dad walking barefoot down the hall searching my bathroom in vain for a comb, Peter's homemade sign hanging on the door: this room is condemned by the board of health. And then you, so taken by my harmless pageantry, the only one who stopped by to see the whimsy, and clearly cherished it loved all of me, down to the last brilliant bead.