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| by Elyssa Diamond |
I drop the chalky orb
into the just too-hot water, releasing its perfumes. The bathroom is heavy with
steam, the air tinted hot pink by my t-shirt draped over a desk lamp—a sad
excuse for mood lighting and a fire hazard in the making. Dried honeysuckles burst
from the dissolving bath bomb and sink to the bottom of the tub. I inhale, and
I’m in my parents’ front yard in the suburbs. It is mid-June in the Saturday
morning sun. My dad drives home with the bagels. He parks on the street, the
front of his Hyundai edging just past the plants that separate our yard from
the neighbour’s. I watch him gingerly open the drivers’ side door, as to not
crush his precious honeysuckle bush. He insists on parking as close to it as
possible, as if he runs the risk of the flowers dying in the time it takes to
get his nose from inside the car to above the petals. He rushes to smell them
as if he’s fighting against the clock, which, in a sense, he is. Tucked away in
the euphoria of his favourite scent is the knowledge that it won’t last forever.
Summer will come and go, the flowers will wither away. We’ll do it all again
next year but only if we’re lucky. I watch him slowly exhale, and I’m back in
my college bathroom, crouching in a tub of shallow water that is just too hot
for me to fully submerge myself into. It is March in upstate New York, which
means I haven’t seen the sun in two weeks. But summer will come again.
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