by Renée Francoeur
I am back in the bathtub. It’s the second time today but it’s only half-filled this time—steaming water two shades too close to dandelion dust. The pipes are old; the landlords say it’s like this in all their century homes. I close my eyes and walk through fields of mustard seed—no, fields of canola in a red gingham dress.
My Michael doesn’t bathe. He only takes showers so he hardly notices it and I am a fan of canary sheets and lemon coloured shoes and golden clunks of earrings so I shrugged and said nothing when we first moved in.
Tonight though it is particularly disturbing. Tonight it is too close to urine. Tonight we are doing things—like bathing rather early or watching wrestling for the first time in 12 years—to avoid thinking about what tomorrow will bring, to unhear whispers of “lay off” and “lockdown,” to unsee those army trucks in Italy with all the coffins.
I am not sure what day it really is. Michael quotes someone he follows on Twitter: “The most Thursday-ish Sunday of a Monday.”
It is actually March 16, 2020. I have been 31 for six days. On this day in 1792, King Gustav III of Sweden is shot by Count Jacob Johan Anckarström at a masked ball at the opera…
In 1916, Canada and the United States adopt the Convention for the Protection of Migratory Birds on this very day. I have always loved how the vibrant Evening Grosbeak’s bill changes colour in the spring…
Also on this day in 1925, the Dali earthquake devastates Yunnan, China.
Eisenhower upholds the use of atomic weapons in case of war in 1955.
In 1988, there is a chemical attack on the Kurdish town of Halabja by Iraqi forces, killing 5,000 civilians—the largest ever chemical weapons attack.
And just last year, on March 16, a beached whale in the Philippines was found to have 88 pounds of plastic inside it, including 40 pounds of plastic bags.
There are four days until spring. The border is closed to you if you’re not a Canadian citizen and Italy has reported 368 coronavirus deaths in 24 hours.
My father, a truck driver, recently had a panic attack at the border, crossing back into southern Ontario with his empty load. There were no wait times, nor any other vehicles at the checkpoints. He started to gasp for air, one hand on the wheel. He called my mother, not sure why his body couldn’t process the absence of exhaust puffs dotting a line in front of him, or the war-like silence when he rolled the window down.
I prop my toes up on the tile. In one hand I have all the wisdom of Zadie Smith, aglow in her glorious green cover, and a cocktail made from 11-month old, already-opened sparkling water. It’s cut through with a dash of the mysterious crème de cassis gifted to me last Christmas. It is flat, of course, and unremarkable.
This is how I come to understand there is no going back—in a yellow bath with a sapless beverage, getting angry with Smith’s Miss Adele Amidst the Corsets. There will be no drive into work tomorrow.
Later, Michael breaks a cocktail glass in the sink, shards glinting under the dim, naked bulbs overhead. It was the last one from that set.
I order compostable floss in a glass jar and eco-friendly soap concentrate in beeswax tubes. Scent: lemongrass.
Renée Francoeur is a 31-year-old Canadian journalist and magazine editor. By day she writes for law enforcement and by night she bakes, paints nudes and writes poetry. She has been published by Three Line Poetry, Standard Criteria, and Squawk Back. She is also a member of the Ontario Poetry Society. She loves wild buffalo, old tombstones and whooping cranes.
