The First Bath
In the evening, the bathroom was warm. The mirror was covered in steam.
Dad filled the little tub. Mom put her hand in the water. Once. Twice.
“It's just right,” said Mom.
Kiwi stood in the doorway, wagging his tail.
“Is that water? Is it for me? Can I go in too? Just a little?”
“No,” said Mango from the hallway. “And not me either. I had a bath in the summer. That's enough.”
Lemony flew to the edge of the little tub. Then she flew out to the terrace, to the trapdoor, and sang: tee-ree-ree.
When she came back, she held a small blue pebble in her beak, round and smooth.
“From the dolphins, from the Wave Quarter,” said Lemony. “They can't climb the steps. So they sent a little piece of their lake.”
Lemony dropped the pebble into the tub. Splash.
Mom lowered Siena into the water, slowly, with her palm under Siena's little head. And the water moved by itself, in small waves. One wave. Another wave. Like a cradle.
Mom heard the water. Dad heard the water. But Siena heard, very softly, through the water, a song from far away: ee-ee-ee.
“Welcome... to the water,” sang the dolphins.
Siena wiggled her toes. Then she lay still, her eyes on the steam.
After the bath, Dad put the pebble on the windowsill by the crib. Next to the snails' spiral. Next to the five feathers. The pebble was still wet and shone blue.
Mango sniffed it.
“Smells like bath,” he said. “On my windowsill.”
And he lay down underneath, with his back to it. Kiwi lay down next to him.
And from the pebble came, very softly, the sound of the lake's waves.
Tower by tower, the town of Siena fell asleep.
Goodnight, Siena.