Bath Day

By Peter Bowden

The girl carried the bucket from the pump, its handle biting into her small hands, water sloshing against her dress. The dog followed at her heels, tail wagging, unaware of what was coming. Sunlight broke through the pines, warm and sharp, and the smell of soap clung to the air.

She set the bucket down, rolled her sleeves, and dipped her hands into the soap. Bubbles rose and drifted, white as feathers, clinging to her fingers. The dog flinched at the first splash but held still, his body trembling as she worked the lather into his coat. He smelled of dust and summer, and the sound of her laughter steadied him more than the touch of her hands.

When it was done, he bounded free, shaking himself into a glittering storm, the girl spinning away in a halo of water and laughter. For a moment, the yard was alive with sparks—sun, soap, girl, and dog stitched together in a tapestry of innocence. And when the last droplets fell, they both stood shining, companions in a summer that would live forever in her memory.


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