You have a whole waterfall in your house now. Warm rain, and you just turn a handle and it comes. I used to think that was the most important thing about being big: you could make it rain whenever you wanted.
But you go so fast. In and out before the mirror even fogs up all the way. You used to want the mirror foggy. That was the best part, drawing on it with your finger, a face, your name, a secret you rubbed out before anyone saw.
You don't sing anymore either. Not even the one song. Nobody can hear you in there, that was the whole point, that's the one room where you can be as loud and bad as you want and no one gets to say stop. Are you saving your voice for something? Where?
I watched you stand under the water with your eyes closed, not washing, just standing. I know that one. That's the thinking place. I did it too, when things got too big to say out loud. So maybe you didn't forget. Maybe you just come here to be quiet now instead of loud.
That's okay. I still like that you built the waterfall.
Next time, though. Draw one thing on the glass.
Just for me.