a personal interlude: ablution

The house where I live doesn’t have a great tub nor does the plug work very well. The best I can do is a hot shower. I often close my eyes and stand head tiled up; the water beating down over me as steam rises and fills the shower space. It’s a moment of peace that I relish every day.

But what I long for is a bath. I dream of a long soak in hot, gently scented, water that comes up to my neck. I want to lean my head back against a tightly rolled towel as water and steam leach all the pain and hurt from my pores.

I’m filled with ache that is foolish and naïve, aged and grumpy. I want water to wash it all away, even if only for an hour.