Tub Issues

I have tub issues.
As a young mother, I read how Andrea Yates
Drowned her five children. The prosecutor
Took out a stopwatch and the courtroom
Silently ticked off the ninety seconds of struggle
That each child would have put up as her hands
Held them under the water.

Monstrous.

Then I dreamed I drowned my son.

A friend reassured me that all mothers have
Such nightmares. We just don’t talk about them.
No wonder.

Even still, I didn’t bathe my son for a year.
The vivid image of our ugly peach-colored tub
In the background of my tiny son’s face, and my hands,
And the water over all.

Like I said, I have tub issues.

So it didn’t bother me too much to leave
Our tub behind. Chronically dehydrated,
Even a short soak leaves me scarlet red,
Stripped of oils and protection. And I don’t
Much like the chemical smell, of chlorine
Or flowers or bubble bath.

But this was a sacrifice for Phil. Given to migraines,
He soaks away toxins, eases sore muscles.
So often during those fifty-two months, I wished
He had a hot bath sanctuary to slip into.

And now he does. No longer peach Plexiglas,
He soaks in an antique cast iron claw-foot,
Appropriately weighty, with good energy.

How strange, to have grieved the lack for so long,
To suddenly find that what we have now is better.

Is this a metaphor of heaven? Or just another example of
Over-consumption? Truthfully, it’s probably both.