Twilight Over Jerusalem

With a glass of Sauvignon Blanc in her hand,

She stands at her window watching Jerusalem turn pink as she does every day at twilight

Waiting for her new husband to come home.

A peaceful color, she thinks.  

The streets below echo with a turbulence of Beethoven’s 5th.

Her mind is battered by squalls as she scans the horizon, watching rockets of war flare in the distance.

Yet she appears serene.

She turns away from the view and walks to her bathroom, leans over the tub, plugs in the stopper, and turns on the hot water. 

She pours lavender salts into the bath and stares into the running water, hoping her husband will be home soon.

She takes off her terrycloth robe and steps into the tub, her skin prickling with the blistering heat of the water.

The room is small and protective.

She and her husband painted it sea foam blue.

Essence of lavender penetrates the steamy air.

A wrapped bar of soap rests at the corner of the tub.

Her grandmother’s gilt-edged mirror hangs on the wall next to her.

Her reflection, the taut body of a young woman with green eyes, pleases her. 

She eases her way into the bath, soaking limb-by-limb, knee-by-knee, breast-by-breast until she is covered up to her neck. 

She throws her head back, feeling the water rush into her hair and over her face.

An absolution for generations of bloodshed she did not cause.

She lies back against the porcelain, soaking in the moment, as this may be, she thinks, the last bath she’ll ever take.