held

I lay in the bathtub. Quietly. Alone. Submerged, with just my chin, mouth, nose, forehead, and knees emerging. I can almost hear my own heart beating under the water. Or maybe that’s just creaky pipes, and the water slowly escaping beneath the plug. Silently whisking away to another land. I lay still and let my body feel supported, comforted by the water holding me, and my mind whisks away with the escaping water. I dream of another life in this tub. Opening my eyes, I lift my feet in the air. The black polish on my toes seems appropriate for the moment. I stick my big toe in the faucet where the hot water slowly trickles in. I think of what it would be like to live somewhere without a tub. My mind is a million miles away then, in a small shanty in India, sitting on the floor eating rice with a child lying on the floor beside me, my feet are bare with chipped black polish on the toes. I feel the cool dirt beneath me and the warm air blowing through. The child’s small hand reaches over and rests gently on my own. In the back of my mind I hear something different then, a lapping of water, and all of a sudden I am brought back to consciousness, to reality, to my bathroom, to my tub, to my life. And here the water is lapping over the edge, making small puddles on the floor. I spring forward from the water, and turn the faucet off. I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror, mascara in dark circles around my eyes. My hair is now wet and dry, curly and straight, sticking up every which way. I burst into laughter at the sight of myself, and the dreams that overflowed my tub. I grab a handful of “good and plenty” candies and fill my mouth. I roll them around with my tongue eating the sugar coating first, before I chew up the licorice inside. And I lay back in the tub, this time grabbing for a handful of popcorn. No need to act dainty, I shovel the kernels in. A few fall into the water, instantly soggy and limp. I leave them be, floating beside me. The pages of my book are wet and curling, and Norah Jones sings heartbroken words from the other room. I wonder if this is depression. Taking baths every night, sauntering until the water gets cold, popcorn floating amidst the suds. I contemplate this for a while, and all the ways I fit a depressed life. I take another handful of licorice. And then I wonder if this is joy. Lingering in the water, eating to my hearts content, living vicariously through someone else’s life in a novel. The pink and white sugar coating has dissolved in my fingers, and I lick the sweetness off. My mind goes back and forth. Sad, stormy, cold, depressed, alone, but that means independence, opportunity, life, joy. But alone, is that okay? And then the thought comes; maybe baths have replaced love. What if this becomes my life? And I wonder if water will be the only thing to ever hold me. At this thought, I pull the plug. I sit still until the water drains; watching my comfort rush away. There is no hurry with nowhere to go. I shiver and hold my knees. Surely this is depression. The bubbles sink and water gurgles down the drain. There is something brown on the bottom of the tub, and I swipe the bubbles away. There lie four “good and plenty’s” by the drain, their sugar coating melted away. At this, I laugh. The out loud kind of laughing that frees a little something inside me. I stand pulling a towel from the rack and wrap the cotton around my body. I feel a little crazy laughing at myself alone and naked in the tub. But as I walk out of the bathroom into the cold dark hallway, I think, surely this must be joy. And even if this replaces love, I think that will be okay.