I remember now why I loved bubble baths as a child. Bubbles are clouds on water and I am wind.
This morning’s bath brought a conglomeration of fine bubbles resembling a dog. Unlike cloud formations, when the dog’s head began to morph into something more amoeba-like, I restored it with an artist’s finger and began to refine its shape into Cinnamon (my deceased dog), dropping the ear and shortening the neck.
I have so few memories of childhood. This one is more a collective impression than a specific instance. Still, I pull it to me, part of the fractured child. Perhaps memory, too, can reach a critical mass and pieces gathered will attract other pieces.
©2010 Sandra Davidson
