Bath
by Mary L. Hamilton
Heat makes steam and steam covers the mirror in condensation. Condensation covers her reflection in streaks of solid mist. Marisol turns from the mirror and lets go her robe. Tests the water with her toes. Opens a jar of bath salts and sprinkles them across the length of the tub and breathes deep as the grains dissolve and the lavender fills her nostrils, throat, lungs.
She puts both feet in the water, gets used to the temperature. Gets used to the burn on her ankles, feet, toes. Folds herself in. Then stretches herself out. Marisol pulls herself under. The bathwater a lukewarm blanket that she pulls over her body. Eyes closed. Everything has been shrunk down to this. This tentative splash when she moves her arm or re-settles her knee. This lapping current she creates with every alteration of her position. Tiny waves crash against the walls of the tub as her skin pulls into small creases and folds on her fingertips. She holds her breath. Pinches her nose. Shudders when the water invades her ears.
When she is completely submerged, she can hear the motion of the water as she shifts her position. She hears her hair whisper against the porcelain. The gap between the drain and the plug pulling at the water. The crash of every drop from the faucet colliding with the bath. Completely submerged, she can only feel this chaotic roar of absolute silence.