soap

Bar soap in the shower. It is this volumous rectangle, beige in color. The soap erodes and disappears over time as it transforms from this hard, molded shape into suds and bubbles and clean. It becomes thin and useless until it disappears entirely or gets thrown away. There is always something captivating about bubbles to dogs and babies. The taste of the soap feels wrong. Something the mouth was not meant to compute. It is slippery and falls hard on the shower floor, the floor of the tub. I like being clean and getting clean. It is gratifying.

Soap kills germs when washing hands and really gets in there if you do it long enough and scrub with enough vigor. Little invisible bacteria, viruses, little amoebas that find their way on to our hands slide right off and down the drain and into the sewer where we don’t have to worry about them anymore. I think we can do this with thoughts too, but with a different kind of soap – a mental soap.

Soaps can come in so many different scents like lavender, coconut, blueberry, and whatever the heck Dial smells like. I like that smell too. There are so many choices to make the experience more enjoyable. The 9th floor bathroom with its special soaps and sprays. Maybe it is a small form of self-care.

Soap boxes and soap operas, always preaching something, yellow – yelling about something. Political or personal. Close-ups with ruby red lipstick and wide-eyes. A 4:3 television set with the speakers blasting because grandma can’t hear. There is an electric organ playing the background. This old-timey stuff back when sofas came in lime green and coral orange. The color of a cool drink. Washing our minds so we calm at the sound of running water. Not a drip, but a deluge. Syncopated drops from a leaky ceiling or faucet begging to be fixed. Running away from no fear. Sliding down dangerous cliffs and caverns. No soap in the wild, just water. South African field hospitals in the 1960s. Dangerous procedures I’m still thinking about today. Captivates and makes me shiver at the thought. Snowbank beehives still buzzing.

Author: Roe

29. she/her. Songwriter & Trek Punk Soul™.

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