From a narrow hallway with yellowing wallpaper, I entered the bathroom. The air was damp, assaulting, like so many Louisiana days; the mirror scarred, and the rose-decorated room musky from years of exposure to hairsprays and colognes. Feeling like a lonely time traveler, I outstretched my hand in a weak attempt to clean the glass. When the faded ceramic frog that had sat quietly in the shower for more than 30 years spoke to me, it was time to leave. Without more than my driver’s license and lipstick, I fled. Backing quickly out of the slanted drive, I never looked back.
By Tamara Turner