There Is A Spaniard In My Mother's Bathroom

There is a Spaniard in my mother's bathroom. His face regally gazes out at me from under a wide-brimmed hat in a lower corner of the wall by the door, where the tile has broken off and left the sea green plaster exposed underneath. His chiseled features are formed by marbled wisps of white; the remains of some adhesive that wasn't ready to let go.

His face has always been there, but no one has ever mentioned it. I don't know if anyone else has looked at that broken tile and seen anything more than just that. I will not speak of him. He is my personal portrait and as I sit on the toilet and stare at his face, I wonder; if I broke away all of the white and green tiles that line these walls, what magnificent portrait of some foreign, royal land would be uncovered.