Mr. Bubble paper box, soggy on the bottom
Die-cut spout like the box of baking soda in the kitchen.
Sparkly afros floating atop the bath water.
Extra bubbles, a treat that require work.
Tan, hairy forearm, the stretchy wristband of his Timex.
One shirt-sleeve rolled up,
On one knee in front of the tub.
Thinning salt-and-pepper hair oily with Vitalis
Rows raked that morning with the teeth of a black plastic comb
Roughing up the water that gushed from the spigot
It was Niagra Falls then.
Agitating only the surface, no need to go deeper.
The sparkling mirrors inside the other sparking mirrors born from the flakes
The frothy cells winked, this is where the fairies lived.
God’s beard adrift in the bathtub.
Too many bubble baths in succession make you itch
In places you shouldn’t scratch in public.
Experiments to determine if a big toe could become stuck in the faucet proved inconclusive.
I’m pretty sure my daughter’s friend thinks I’m whacky. But, maybe not. Maybe she gets me. More likely, she doesn’t think that at all because she’s not thinking about me.
The three of us are in the car. My daughter in the passenger seat; her friend in the back. I dare glance at the youngest of my two children. I take in her face, her features suspended between child and young woman. I note how her eyelashes nearly brush the inside lenses of her sunglasses.
She allows my gaze for a couple seconds before turning to me with a scalding, ‘What?” followed by a withering, “Why are you looking at me?” and finally, “Why are you talking about gorillas?”
I’m talking about gorillas, I tell her, because they’re interesting. Because we have things in common with gorillas; with other people and it pays to take notice sometimes. To think of things other than manicures and makeup and boys; switching to her dad’s house and lunches out with friends. (She’s right. I also spend an inordinate amount of time thinking about these same things.)
I’m talking about gorillas because her 13-year-old best friend in the backseat has a younger brother who is autistic and non-verbal. And I want to share a story I heard a couple evenings ago that I think she will appreciate.
As I deliver my preamble, I’m struck by how unpredictable and confusing entry-level teenagers can be. Interactions with them remind me of the time I found a raccoon in my front yard. I was surprised and happy to see this unexpected guest. How lovely and delightful! I remember thinking, “Surely this is some sort of mystical visit. Wait. Maybe it’s a dead relative come to visit in animal form!” I had to get closer. Continue reading “Sometimes, it’s gorillas”
I’m not sure why I’ve not just thrown it away yet, that offensive holiday coffee mug. Each morning, it mocks me from the back row of the cupboard. All fat and stupid and in poor taste. It offends me.
I’m going to toss it today.
I’m not a coffee cup snob, just particular. I loved the mug my ex-husband gave me one Valentine’s Day and mourned when it broke. A thick, white mug that proclaimed, ‘I like everything hot,’ punctuated with a sexy little red heart and lipsticked kissy lips.
When Tinder was still permitting Moments (the little photographic peeks into your life you could share with your matches), I posted that picture. A colorfully composed, ‘I’m not trying too hard but look how cool and possibly easy I am’ shot of that mug artfully placed off-center, in front of an equally cool potted plant or two against the backdrop of the graphic black-and-off white, indoor-outdoor Greek key rug on my sunroom floor. – Keep reading!