Hyacinth and Sea Salt
I put my home to sleep every night right when the sky outside is like spilled ink bottles. Pinks and mauves and purples running into each other and I can’t tell where one ends and the other begins.
I start by putting away the leftovers in the refrigerator and then get on with the dishes. Warm suds, the squeak of a clean plate, the clink of cutlery in the dishwasher.
I scrub the sink till I see my face in it. I spray and wipe the countertops. Toys put away, pillows straightened and fluffed, floors vacuumed. Eight drops of rainforest oil in the diffuser. Eleven plants watered (a whispered “you’re beautiful” to each).
Then off to wash off the last dregs of the day from my body. Face as squeaky clean as the dishes. A smear of lotion that sinks in like the thirsty earth in summer. One minute of extra time spent to massage away the feathery little lines around my eyes. The swish of the silky robe around my shoulders and I’m done.
Big lights off and three taps on each of the lamps to make the light pool in delicious puddles in just the right way. Then a crackle as I light a candle. Hyacinth and sea salt, because it’s spring. Then I sit on the sofa, legs stretched out under a furry blanket. A big sigh escaping my chest.
Paired Listening
From the Five Part Body Playlist
