I turn out the lights and then shower with Saba, cleansing myself in the warm water; bathing my pale body within the strands of natural daylight drifting through the window. It’s dim but I can see. The ambiance is soothing. Gentle. Soft.
I begin to sing. The pitter patter of drops breaking against the hard acrylic tub sets the beat. I make up a new love song for her, and though my pitch is off, and my voice nasally from the cold still caught in my head, she doesn’t complain. She curls up on the soft towels I’ve laid out on the ledge of the tub and watches me intently, listening; then she flutters her eyelids closed and looks completely at peace.
I change up my tone, going operatic, moving my voice from highs to lows. There’s no more words now but language isn’t what binds her and I. She soaks up my voice and energy as I soak up the steam surrounding our bodies. My physical form feels weak, yet I can still press my lashes together and muster the strength within my vocal cords to reach, what is right now, their fullest potential. Between my hums and those moments I stretch to know soprano, I open my eyes and watch the particles of mist waltzing through the sunlight.
As I turn off the tap and exit the shower, patting my face and body dry with a most absorbent and cushiony towel, I realize that this is happiness. I may be sick and housebound but I’m with my love. I’m at peace. I’m free. Right now, there’s no where else I’d rather be.
Saba with the real waterfall (2020)
Art as Therapy (2020) by Amy Frank
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