At dawn, wash yourself in a shower of flame. The eternity mirrors are seared with steam, and the vent is filled with a rushing mighty wind. Part the slimy curtain. Someone hands you a towel. Anoint your face with oil-free lotion. Not your head only, but your back, shoulders, breasts, arms, legs, and feet. For a moment, you are naked and not ashamed. Now, don a bathrobe and slippers. Clothe yourself in newly laundered garments. Kneel at a bedside altar. Move through every room in the house. Select a piece of fruit for breakfast—it tastes both bitter and sweet. You cannot finish—share half of it with your husband. Open the garage or your laptop with the password. Banish your children to the basement. There are three knocks at the door. Must they see you while your hair is still wet as the font? Pay bills—the funds in your bank are sufficient for your needs. Work in the garden in the heat of the day, pulling briars, thorns, and noxious weeds. Naptime is over. Change diapers again. Sprinkle blood on a pad, smear it on the horn of a tampon. Is there no other way? Slice the chicken (without blemish) for the evening sacrifice. Your daughter has found your wedding veil in the bin full of dress-ups. Your father calls. His voice comes from far away through the phone. Change your clothes. Children, be obedient! Endless sacrifices = consecration. Light a scented candle like incense—one of home’s simple joys. After dinner, your husband is outside raking leaves into an apron you can wear while you cook yet another meal. Gather the children into a circle before bed, holding hands. Give the firstborn a list of family members’ names to remember in their prayer. At last, whisper to your husband at night. Earlier, your daughter whispered to you, half-shout: can you keep a secret? You did the whites today. Slip between clean sheets to rest and replenish. Life: an endless lone and dreary waste. Each day: a temple.
