It is a rare thing, a cold May morning. The painted radiator is hot to the touch, and the noise of the pipes comes from the heart of the old house—comforting and anonymous as a pulse.
Tiny rounded pieces of four or five different soaps float on the milky water: rose, lavender, sandalwood, and patchouli tadpoles swim around my belly, compounding their scents.
The steam from the tap rises and meets the first light coming in from the window. The corners of the room are dark, still in night.
Everything is the color of pearl. The old white tub is smooth and faceted as the inside of a giant shell.
My cat regards me from the top of the toilet seat, closing and opening her eyes more glamorously than any actress, more attentively than any nurse. She stands perfectly as a toy; she is an illustration of a cat.
I hoist my dripping leg into the air, but I cannot hold it straight. I have coiled and tensed through all my years—no warmth can open me now.
I step into a thick, clean white towel.
I still love the world.
1 comment:
Nice descriptive piece but sad that you can't feel warmth.
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