I was three, maybe four,
small enough to curl
into the curve of a clawfoot tub
in a house I barely remember,
yet still visits me in dreams,
a memory buried deep,
whispered back by time.
The walls wore soft brown wallpaper,
rising halfway up
before giving way to a hush of white.
Steam floated lazily in the air.
The scent of fruity soap
filled our noses.
My mother’s hands moved
with the ritual grace
of women who have always known
how to care.
In one hand, a plastic cup,
light green,
her mother’s.
With the other,
she cradled the back of my head.
“Tilt your head back now,
and close your eyes,” she said,
her voice gentle, melodic.
This part was always my favorite.
the warmth of the water,
the closeness of her.
She began to sing:
Close your eyes and I’ll kiss you,
Tomorrow I’ll miss you,
Remember I’ll always be true...
And then while I’m away,
I’ll write home every day,
And send all my lovin’ to you...
As the water poured
over my hair, again and again,
her voice wrapped around me,
a silkened lullaby,
carried on a current.
And when her voice faded,
when it stopped completely,
so did the water
flowing over my head.
