January 7, 2015Bathtub BaptismLeslie Marie Aguilar

I know I’m having an episode when I dip my toes into lukewarm bathwater only to take a step backwards for fear of drowning. Instead, I choose to weave anxiety angels into the living room carpet with my arms & legs. They are exiles of a body I don’t recognize, & I worry that uneasiness stems from adolescence & cooking with hot canola oil too often. At night, I dream of marrying a younger version of my sweetheart, who doesn’t look anything like my sweetheart, & come to think of it isn’t my sweetheart at all. It’s strange, like developing a longing for country music or lemonade in clear cups. When it’s time to walk down the aisle, in my dream, it’s a grocery aisle, & I’m holding a bottle of wine as a bouquet before someone stops me to ask, Why are you crying? Before I can answer, I wake up & find myself counting calories on cereal boxes. The vacancy in my bowl is like a field of sunflowers planted in the shade of a pecan tree, & I’m a skeleton of steel turned to rust over a bathtub, waving my foot over water in surrender.