There was this little girl. And she loved the world all around her.
Smoke filled days. Paper lanterns in the summer, cherry tree to cherry tree hung
with laughter of those hippies.
Her father let her taste the beer
he held in his carpenter hands. She held it in her mouth too long, because it was his breath, his sweat, his smelly socks and woodshave ways.
All the warmth around her. Chlorine in her nose. Bells on their toes. 1970's summers don't last.
In the bathtub she is older now.
Coloring the world behind her eyes with memories of then. Reaching back to then. Conjuring the dirt roads and Queen Anne's Lace.
There is no water in the bathtub. It's a renovated mess. There's no way to get out. Deep deep deep into the white ceramic tile.
You come home.
"What are you doing in the bathtub?" you ask.