Asylum Baptism

I drift backwards into the shower. Fully dressed. Wearing wool socks and underwear over shorts. A forest green plaid on top, partially unbuttoned. Outfitted to travel to another world, another place I'd rather be.

Lurid water cascades from a stationary saucer. Eyelets stare at me from above. Soap mixes with streams, trickling down my sides. Opalescent bubbles dance, gracing a white floor and three walls. I rise to songs of tedium, sounds prophetic of our days.

Entranced by the hum of the flood, the curtain that protects me is failing. I tear it down. It falls to my feet and water pools in its crevices, valleys between mountains. I kneel to pray and fold a wet drapery into squares.

I step out and hear Amy shrieking to the nurse: Do not bother the Holy Spirit! To her, the Holy Spirit is water; water rushing and moving. I watch myself pass by the bathroom mirror, face dewy with belief.

Once the coast of our bedroom is clear, I bow to Amy. I acknowledge her and honor her. Today, she is my mother. She gives birth to the Spirit she imagines. And I am born. I emerge into a hallway that I christen with tap water.

Stepping lightly past custodians, I am patience and faithfulness. Drenched with a Spirit that is not my own, Amy follows me. She cries out: Holy Spirit! And we all, virtuosos of truth, go to the cafeteria for Thanksgiving.