Bath Time
A Story-Poem
She sits on my lap, a white towel wrapped about her chubby waist, her feet dangling in the basin. I scrub the dirt from her feet and between her toes. She is my youngest child, four and a half years old. An angel, if I have ever met one. I am giving her a bath. I first wash her ears and face. She makes funny faces and says the washcloth tickles. I wash under her arms and between her legs. She enjoys these baths as much as I do. It is our own private time. The boys are downstairs playing and my husband is in his study. Her feet are the last part that I bathe. They are also the dirtiest part of her. I let her run barefoot around the house. She loves the freedom. I can’t wait until she grows up and becomes a young lady. I want the best for her. The best clothes. The best schools. The best man. I don’t want her to suffer and starve like some of my sisters did. Marriage was not a gift to my sisters. That’s why they think I am strange. That I am stuck-up because I am better off then they are. Can I help it if I married the right guy? Why should I be punished because of their choices? I gave birth to four boys who take after their father. They soon tired of me and my womanly ways. They sought to spend every moment they could with their father. She is all mine. She makes my heart throb all night long. I pray that God will keep her safe and out of harm’s way. Soon I will put her to bed and give her a goodnight kiss. I thank God everyday that I have been so lucky. That time has healed my wounds.
