Inanimate objects and longing

There was a time when we all shared a single bathroom. The toothbrush holder held four toothbrushes: there were the adult ones and the special ones for kids - with softer bristles, brighter colours and cartoon caricatures. My parents used to use theirs’ until the bristles wore off, until they repelled each other and each half faced away from the other; in harmony and in symmetry but away. My sister and I always wanted new ones, brighter ones, softer ones. 

But the biggest constant was the toothpaste. It was always Colgate, always the simple red and white one.

Sometimes, I would ask for the bright blue gel one but we always somehow went back to the simple white paste in the red and white coloured tube. 

What I remember is how quickly the paste would run out. Four rounds of use, twice a day, or so we claimed to our parents after dinner. I remember squeezing the paste out; we were taught to use it right until the end. There used to be a lot of - Mom! The toothpaste is finished! heard around the house. 

Today, my washroom has a toothbrush holder with a solitary toothbrush. Sometimes there is another one, for travels and business trips - it lasts until it gets left behind in some hotel room - never to return. 

The toothpaste is another story. The family size one lasts forever. I long to feel the irritation of having to struggle to squeeze out the last bit. But there is never a need to, if it’s finished, there is usually another stored in my sparsely furnished apartment somewhere. 

There is no one to argue with for having forgotten to replace the toothpaste - no parent, no partner. I don’t think I would care if someone did not put the toothpaste cap back on. I only wish my electric toothbrush had company, that the toothbrush holder would hold more than one. The kind that would return from travels and trips. 

I wish the toothpaste would get finished a little more quickly.