At our house growing up, we bathed by scooping out water from a bucket with a small recipient. Ours was a plastic measuring cup.
On certain days, after I’d taken my bath, I’d refill the bucket and soak just my feet. The warmth of the water permeated through the soles. I’d wrap my arms around my wet knees and rest my head; a tiny capsule whose contents reminded me of home.
As I sat there, bare-bottomed in our tub, I stared out into a horizon of emptiness. Somehow, the tub was my spaceship. The noise of the world, a distant residue. There was only space. Deep, dark, infinite.
Floating into oblivion, the tub was my safe space.
