Boy Bathing Under a Coco Palm

Every morning I see him

toddling through the long damp grass

with a red plastic pail full of water.

He moves carefully, but quick as he can,

weight pressed to the nub of his belly,

both hands gripping the crooked

wire handle with a steadiness

he’s not had much time to learn.

He’s three and a half, four at most.

Every day I wonder how long

he has known how to carry out

this complicated private chore.

He sets the pail down slowly,

taking pains to avoid spilling a drop

of the ladle drawn from the precious

reserve just minutes before. Next,

the sponge is wet and the soap

lathered onto it. He starts at the top

of his head, scrubbing hard with chin

pressed low and eyes pinched shut.

Moving the sponge back and forth

vigorously, laying thick white suds

into the fine, soft nap of his hair. Back

of the ears, then inside, plying tiny

fingers to get close to the matter.

The rest of the bath is managed with

the same sure stroke, and with care

to prevent muddying the water he will

need for the rinse. He concentrates

hard to lift the pail. Pours a thin stream

over his head and body. He does not

miss a single spot.

Watching him, I relearn the steps of my

own morning habit: hauling water from

a drum, using only what is necessary,

and nothing, nothing more.

Words Upon the Water (Juke Box Press, 2007)

Friends Journal (April 2016).