The Bath in the Barn

There is a big white bathtub out in the barn. Go use it, I’m told, while we’re away. The barn has a renovated second floor: an open studio with many white framed windows and white washed walls, an office and a bathroom with a white jacuzzi tub, a white shower, a white toilet, white curtains with white lace trim and a white sink. Tonight, after walking the dog and getting warm and sticky from the new Spring sun, I take baby out to the barn with her towel, a green bar of soap in my bathrobe pocket and the brass key on a white string. I run the water warm; strip myself and remove baby's diaper. We stand smiling in the mirror before I step in and sit. She reaches for the porcelain wall, my hair, the spout, my skin. I cradle her so that she can nurse. Then I sit her between my legs, while I wash the sunscreen from her face and hair; carry water to her folds, back and shoulders; and slide my finger between her toes, around her nose and behind her ears. I turn off the water. Quiet. The neighborhood sounds are far from us here. I say, “momma." I say it low. I say it high. I sing it. She stares at me through wet eyelashes. She whispers breathy babbles. She almost says it. I tap my bare chest and repeat it with the syllables. Then I touch her arm and do the same with her name. She doesn’t really say it, but the time away from the distractions of the dog, the telephone, the flour, the dishes, laundry, my book –-this time spent in the tub is precious to me. Naked, we splash, talk, and listen to our echoes as they chase and shadow our spontaneous sounds. I pull the drain, pick her up, stand, dry, diaper. Outside, I lock the white barn door and pass over the grass toward home.

One day, when she’s too old for our bodies to be bare and close, I'll read this to remember the forgotten night when she was just eight months old and we were alone in a barn with a big white bathtub all to ourselves.