Since Christmas I’ve been floating in
the bath bombs my husband gave me from Lush–
enormous sparkling balls of colour
which fill our bedroom with exotic perfumes.
When you drop them in the water,
they careen around like drunken tennis balls,
spewing a fuzzy stream of technicolor bubbles.
The first one was coffee-scented,
and I had to laugh,
lying there in a giant creamy latté.
Another resembled a golden peach,
and out of its centre came floating
–unexpected up to my face–
a perfect little dried flower,
all pointy and crimson.
Why all this sweet madness of sparkling bubbles
from my often-away, hard-working husband?
They are a silent embrace from afar,
a wordless thank you for all you do,
an affirmation of my body’s goodness,
even, or maybe especially, when it’s exhausted.
So tonight, feeling frazzled and snappy
from too many sibling squabbles
and the sneaky migration of mismatched socks
all over the living room floor,
I threw in a big orange bath-bomb,
and read a delicious chapter of Before Green Gables
while the tub filled up.
Finally, I slid into this frothy carrot soup
and imagined I was floating in the sea,
bobbing up and down near the shore
with seagulls gliding high above the waves.
But…the tiny bubbles popping near my ears
made it sound like I was bathing
in a giant bowl of Rice Crispies instead.
At least, for once, with the toddler asleep,
no one was trying to steal my cereal!