My head is bowed forward. My eyes are closed. It’s trickling down through my cheeks again. I know what this is. I’ve been here before.
Something about letting the water flow makes my breath catch, over and over. There is pain, like being squeezed by a rock, only on the inside. My hands are shaking, as the item in my hand comes loose. My voice is shaking, too.
I feel my chest heaving, and I wish I could stop it. Is this place helpful any more? What more is there to express? You’d think familiarity would make me resistant. But all it does is make me frustrated.
The memories take me in. The memories make me relive. The memories…make me laugh. I adjust the towel around my shoulders as I shiver.
I’m not there any more. Not in the place where water on my face was always a bad thing. It’s an early morning, I tremble in cold, and all the water on my face is just the remnants of a freshly washed head, the quivering and pain from leaving the heat of a comfy bath. “Do I have to get so danged cold every time I wash my hair?” I think as I pick up the comb my shivering fingers dropped.
Funny, how the water running down my face could transport me as they did. But this time I can smile with soggy cheeks. This time, there is no salt, no stickiness, no sorrow. This time, it’s just water.