Thursday Morning

I said: Lord, how is it done?
—Enos 1:7

Water starts at the crown of my head and drips off the ends of my dry hair, and I know soon it will be soaked through. Hot water moves downward, at first just tracing rivulets in the built-up dust of everyday living. In time, the water rinses much of it away: the regret for words I wish I hadn’t said, and for the deeds I wish I hadn’t done. Washes away the remorse for everything I’m not, for the perfection I haven’t yet achieved. I watch them, the I-wishes and the I-should-haves and the I-didn’ts, flowing with the water, toward the drain.

Apply a little soap and I am clean.

Brand new.

A miracle.