My affinity for luxurious bathrooms comes from my mother.
Growing up we moved a few times, from the city, to the beach, to the desert.
Her bathroom was never short of being inviting and peaceful.
Luscious plants, art, and candles surrounded the jacuzzi.
I distinctly remember this beautiful Indian sculpture of a folk dancer.
Colors of red and gold, her hands in Gyan Mundra - the unity of fire and air,
Stimulating wisdom and knowledge through spiritual progress.
My grandmother painted this sculpture. She loved painting sculptures.
Nowadays, each time I bathe in my San Francisco apartment an odd paranoia creeps in.
I think about the ceiling above dropping on me.
I think about the bathtub dropping from under me:
sometimes contemplating which I'd prefer.
She comes and goes during this supposed relaxing thirty-five-minute cleanse.
Obsessing about the weight of my bath, I add and take away water multiple times.
My mind starts to slow down, finally she starts to silence,
I'm beginning to resemble stillness.
Listening to the wooden wick burn the scent of sweet vanilla and cardamom, I press my fingers against the towel on the floor.
I reach for my light blue lighter and my mini jay.
Flicking the lighter, I light my herb and sink deeper into my Epsom salt bath.
Inhaling and exhaling,
I'm finally motionless
And now the water's cold.
We're cuddling on the bed and look playfully into each other's eyes.
I giggle as you reach for my waist. You kiss me and ask, "Should we take a shower?"
I skip out of bed, removing my clothes as I go.
I rotate the hot handle to the left by 180 degrees, the cold handle to the left by 60 degrees.
We like our showers hot.
I hop in first. (I always get in first.)
Wetting my hair, I grab the Dr. Bronner's 18-in-1 Peppermint Soap and lather up.
You come in with the mini speaker, a track already started.
You clumsily remove your clothes and get in.
We're smiling at each other.
Our water dance begins.
Your turn under the hose; my turn under the hose, my turn, my turn, my turn,
Now your turn again.
I wash your chest and shoulders; your hair starts to curl in the soap.
"Arm up," I scrub your armpits and joke about making you fresh.
My eyes close as I pull back my hair to wet it again, you kiss me.
I imagine we're in the rain, or near a waterfall, barefoot. No one near us for miles.
Whispering moans and sighs into each other's ears.
You ditch the loofa and use your hands to rub the soap all over my body.
Bending down to your knees, you kiss me all over.
Pacing back and forth, filled with anxiety, insecurities, conclusion jumping, assumption making, renaming memories -
I need to get clean.
I smell like fear, like uncertainty.
It's a distinct kind of smell.
My stomach is empty, my breath is short.
The water's on; it's starting to get hot.
I step in.
The water runs down my back; I gain a moment of relief.
I don't even bother to grab the soap.
Water and tears pouring down my face.
I'm weeping.
Tortured by this form of mourning.
My lip quivers.
My jaw twitches.
The vein in the middle of my forward protrudes out, reading the time of eleven twenty-five.
I fall into cow pose, what was once a moan is now a howl.
My hands pressing down where your feet used to stand.