Grandma's Bathroom
Copyright 2001 by Jon Gill

Irony – that the four-hour trip to Grandma’s house is culminated by the ensuing trip right past Grandma’s open arms into that little room by the corner of the dining room next to the radio that’s older than I am. That room that you actually have to step up into for no apparent reason other than it was probably added after the house was built, possibly in the winter when the ground was too frozen to bury pipes. That centerpiece of a toilet, waiting for all the children and grandchildren to visit once again, working overtime during holidays like Thanksgiving and Christmas. The laundry chute that functions well until twenty-five overcurious grandchildren try to stick twenty-five Tonka trucks into it, which then collect not sand, but dirty underwear and socks. The cabinets filled with all sorts of geriatric medicines and nothing fun for kids, except maybe the scented duck-shaped soap bar. And the removable showerhead, used most of the year for those places made hard-to-reach by arthritis, but during the festive holidays, used for the classic water fight between cousins.
This room, the shrine of the classic house, is the goal of the four-hour trip.

What does this poem mean?

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