i let the water run as i lay flat on my back in a tub that still smells slightly of bleach. i am merging with the porcelain in lieu of the soil and meeting the roots of all the flowers i cannot own. this ritual is so much more than watching my fingertips shrivel up, more than this conscientious cleansing of every nook and crease, more than the way the water feels between my toes as i sift through the letters. i have never refused to walk; this is an unmoored inclination.
i acknowledge every tile and every crack as distinct and charming entities, each with their own story. always they welcome me back by way of a make-believe tea party. i sink in without a doubt; my head lingers in a daze as i hold my breath, my face covered by sheaths and eyelids. i break the silence with a sigh, and my voice resonates as i sing along in remembrance. while there would be no soil waiting for me if i fell through the ground, there would likely be the neighbour there—an old man quiet in an old man’s way, tending to his flowers, never surprised.
oh mary of silence
you break my heart with a smile
this is not a pause-resume situation, evidently. everything has changed—who you were then, who you are now, who you will be. all these versions of you cohabit as you drift in and out of the elements. there is no predicting. you will make do when you surface again, in a wistful song or among the flowers.