| They kept the door locked all day and all night. Occasionally, I would hear them walk up to the bathroom door, listen to my splashes in the water, and, satisfied, retreat back to the safety of a bedchamber. Whispers. Twice a day I would be given random scraps that were left from the daily meals - bread crusts stained with peanut butter, dollops of oatmeal rich with cinnamon, a trace of chocolate cake. Laurie would bring me the tray, careful not to look into my desperate eyes. At night, I would cry, longing for the ocean. A gentle knock on the door. Laurie, stepping inside carefully, put a candle on the floor. �I heard you crying,� she said quietly, staring blankly into the flame of the dying candle. The oceanic air in the room made the candle extinguish. A long silence. It reminded me of the times when we would sit in the bathtub in our bathing suits, waiting for the puckering to begin. �The snow is melting. Soon it will be the spring.� �I know,� I respond. I could feel the longing in my bones that only comes with the spring. A longing to return to where one belongs, to celebrate life and the ebb and flow of tides. �Do you know how long it has been since mother smiled?� Laurie�s eyes exuded loss. She picked up the melted candle and retreated, instinctively locking the door behind her. For the first time in my young life, I felt genuine guilt. Yet, the overpowering need to find solace in the ocean grew into a pit in my heart so large that I often crawled into it and slept there peacefully at night. All day and night I cried. I ached in the cold water. I wanted to see mother�s face, I wanted her to see that I was alright, that I liked this change, that she shouldn�t be upset, but be elated by my evolution. Laurie only came back for one more visit. �The birds are singing now,� she informed me. �The grass is green and all of mother�s yellow tulips are in bloom.� �I want to go.� �I know you do...� Laurie trailed off. She sat on the side of the bathtub, running her small hands through my seaweed hair. �Someone else wants to say goodbye.� In the doorway, a head appeared. At first, it was unrecognizable, a mere shadow. �Mother...� It came out as more of a sigh than a word. She stayed in the entranceway for a long time, looking long at my newly formed body. She suppressed a sob, and stepped closer. Like Laurie before her, she sat on the side of the bathtub. Staring intensely into my eyes, she tried to find the core, tried to find what was left of her daughter. �There you are,� she said, smiling. She sat back, looking one last time. In one lucid movement, she unplugged the stopper in the bathtub. The water, creating a tornado as it circled down the drain, disappeared at a steady rate. Laurie and mother stood back, embracing. I, like the water, vanished and was flushed out into the ocean. |