Entry #49

Weightier Things
by Rocky Wing


I thought the water would feel weightier. Like the time we whined and mom shouted back “if it’ll shut you up” dumping the bubbles in. I never told her that the directions only called for a capful. That was the first thing that I remember not telling her. One tiny drop, a mere fissure, eroding us.

And then quiet.

I thought the water would feel weightier. Those bubbles would add thickness pressing against our naked bodies. Billy liked the lighter top fluff, carefully corralling it in hopes to form “the longest beard ever.” He has a real beard now, of substance, not so delicate. Under the water it felt more like the real beard. Thick, grimy. I gripped the chain between my toes, pulling. The weighty water tugged at my body. Billy squealed, jumping out. I just lay there, wrinkled body against the porcelain, until every drop ran, eroding me.

And then quiet.

I thought the water would feel weightier. That night dad left us. At the door, a drop curving down his wrinkled face, dad said “blood is thicker than most things. You, me, mom, Billy, we all have the same blood. That means something.” I guess dad was wrong. I can’t feel the weight. I can’t feel the meaning. I dumped more than a capful in this water, more spouts from this stranger’s flesh. She whines like us “why” and screams like mom “Please stop!!” while the knife carves fissures in her skin, eroding her.

And then quiet.