belong

My childhood bath tub: the first body of water I belonged to after my mother.
As she scrubbed my tiny back, I pored over the sage wall tiles, wondering
if they were more green than blue or blue than green or if that even mattered.
At that age, running water was the loudest sound in the world. Number two
was the squelch of my bubblegum-scented shampoo. As pesky suds escaped
my mother’s fingers entangled in my hair, I imagined the bubbles traversing
my skin like pirates, plundering its surface (collecting dirt) and sailing away (washing out).
Soon, my mother rid the world of its loudest sound and hastily wrapped me in a towel.
When I jerked my head to face the blue/green/whatever tiles, she recoiled at the water
droplets attacking her face in the name of their pirate friends. “Hey, don’t get water on me!”
she said, giggling and holding me still as she wiped my skin clean of pirate footprints.
With a wide-toothed smile, she continued combing my hair, detangling the distance
between mother and child, reminding me of our (arrrr) natural synergy.