I was seven years old when Mum was in the hospital having my baby brother. Nana, who lived in the apartment next door, was minding us. I had just helped her bathe my 3 yr old sister in the kitchen sink. I distracted her by singing nursery rhymes while Nana washed her hair and cleaned out her ears. My sister hated that part and screamed bloody blue murder even when Mum did it.
When my sister was done, Nana wanted to give me a bath too. I started to protest that I was much too big for the sink, that I always took baths in the tub, and that I'd probably freeze to death anyway in her kitchen, but it was no use. She had a bad back, she said, and she didn't want to hear another word. When Nana said that, she meant it.
So, all elbows and knees, and completely mortified lest I be seen by someone through the first floor kitchen window, I endured the tepid water left over from my little sister's bath (of all things) and awaited my mother's return.
Susan has been writing since her husband died in 1997. She has written essays, memoirs and over 350 poems.