CLEANSER

I douse my face in the hotel bathroom, 

And notice my face wash has reached the end of its bottle, 

A serendipitous synchronicity with the end of this trip. 

I meet my own eyes on the mirror before closing them softly, then slowly inhaling the last soapy scent of the cleanser. 

Suddenly I’m transported to a hostel in Soho, preparing my face for a day of London exploration, girlishly excited; 

I’m back overlooking Brighton Beach, blissfully unaware of what lay ahead of me, with sweet naivety on my side;

I’m in a family home in Northern England, completely humbled by the kindness of strangers, restorative of the love that exists in the hearts of all humans;

I’m in Florence, praying that in this simple ritual can cleanse away the pitiful mental slump I’ve found myself in; 

I open my eyes and exhale, and in an instant I’m back here, here being a hotel in Bali, readying myself to go to the airport. 

Quickly I count on my fingers  just how long it is that I’ve been away from home, and instead of feeling too sentimental about the sum I come up with, or fondly thinking back on all of the corners of the world I’ve seen; 

I scoff at myself for how terrible I am at remembering to wash my face. 

It’s been four months and the bottle was only a travel size.