Mom

Daydream sweeper, sweeping her kitchen of debris left from meals she cooks for strangers who sat at her table. Stands of unkempt strawberry blonde hair fall about her pink cheeks, her dark brown eyes looking downward to the never ending chore of "keeping house". She is smiling out the corner of her mouth, and she imagines the dirt is a flock of tiny black sheep that she is herding into a corner of the room. She glances up at the time. 6:56... Her boyfriend will be back soon, with the illegitimate children of hers, that for some reason don't count, because they were squeezed out without a man to hold her hand. She resumes sweeping. She is barefoot with chipped pink nail polish on 8 of her 10 toes. She is wearing a tired dress with an empire waistline... she is a princess indeed. Her picture perfect life is nothing more than a silhouette of a woman and a mop and a window in front of her. With a deep sigh she bends down to brush the sheep into a pan, and she throws them in the trash. The dishes are done, the cleaning is done, and she has time to sneak upstairs.

She wanders up and begins to run the water. She turns the heat on full blast to steam up the room. She brings the radio in from the den, and plugs it in on the counter. It begins to coo at her, and calm her frustration, melt her disappointments. Bach is the only man she's consistently loved. She stops the running water and waits for it to cool to a suitable temperature. She brushes the tangles out of her long hair. She washes her face with warm water and a fragrant soap. She removes her uniform.

Gracefully and slowly she lowers herself into the water, the classical harpsichord music still playing softly from the radio. She traces her toes at the end of a bent leg, across the water like a figure skater. She leans back to submerge her entire head. For a minute, she ponders returning to the surface, the peace under the water is almost too inviting. With a gasp she surfaces again, and the classical music resumes it's previous, un-muffled intensity. The warms of the bath, the damp bangs falling into her eyes, the tiny flakes of nail polish floating past her as they lift from her toenails... it's like a dream. It’s like a private spring, where only she is allowed to bathe. It's being naked with no erotic connotation. It's being nude. It’s being in ones own skin and having no judgments, no chores, no pending assignments or fights to mediate. It's becoming refreshed, clean, renewed. It's her not thinking, breathing slowly, perfectly alone, and perfectly content.
...and then the door slams a floor below her.

And 3 voices are heard.

And there is bounding up the stairs.

"Mom! I need to go to the bathroom!"