I lie there

I'm watching. Steam rising, in little curls like cigarette smoke. I'm watching. As my toes unselfconsciously dance to the rhythm of the bobbing water. I move my body a little and make a wave and as I move, the water tries to pull me back and I notice I am heavy, as heavy as can be. I lie there in silence, bar the occasional drip from the tap and an intermittent gurgle from the holes that sit underneath the taps, seemingly challenging me to tell them to be quiet. 

I lie there. Thinking. Thinking, that this is only the third time I have layed here since we moved to this house six years ago. The first time I lay here, I was in the early stages of labour with my second child and my mother had run a bath for me. I remember it was the most uncomfortable, most brief affair. It left me with no desire to repeat the occasion any time quickly. I try my hardest to make it a moment, I watch the curls of steam rising, rising. But then my eye turns to the ceiling where water marks and blemishes and small edges of peeling paper, slightly mildewed, utterly distract me and make my skin crawl a little. 

I lie there. Then I remember that time near to when I went into labour with that second child of mine. I remember being alone in that room with the window open when the young, female doctor told me that my baby's growth had slowed. That my baby needed to be born and soon. That my baby would be healthier outside of my belly. I remember the goosebumps on my arm and I remember thinking that it was either the words she was saying that was causing them or the slight breeze from the open window. I wasn't sure which. I remembered how casually I had dismissed the offer of accompaniment from my husband and my mother preceding the visit, shrugging my shoulders and closing my eyes, wafting my outstretched hands downwards in a 'don't fuss' fashion. I could feel my eyes begin to sting as the doctor explained I would need to return the following day to see the consultant and make a final decision. 

I lie there and think how funny it is this memory of ours. How she plucks long lost narrative from our back gardens. Things forgotten, things purposefully buried, things weighted down so that they sink to the bottom. I lie there and I remember. I do lie there but not for long. Just long enough to see that the smoke has cleared and then I rise and pull the plug. I step out and back into the room, I'd almost believe it hadn't happened but I can see that the windows are fogged, much like my memory.