Sink.

My dad and I had very few interactions which might be considered educative. They were usually mysteriously begun, inspired by some masculine wisdom he felt he needed to share with me. Among these exchanges was the time he called me into the bathroom after he'd finished shaving. There was no evidence of the tools of shaving—the can of shaving cream has been put away and the razor had been rinsed and returned to the drawer. All that remained was the speckled, gray debris of his whiskers lining the basin like dirt. He told me to look at it and in that moment my father provided a glimpse of the world we would share.