Snooping

by Kim June Johnson

My grandmother kept
a shoebox full of soap scraps
in the back of her bathroom closet.
I found it on a rainy day
when the adults were napping
and I was bored. Later,
when I asked my mother about it,
she rolled her eyes and said
it was because of the Great Depression.
I pictured the photographs
of dusty landscapes and hot, clear skies
I’d seen in a school textbook
but couldn’t find the connection.
Each piece of soap was the size and shape
of a skipping stone worn smooth by waves.
I liked to plunge my hands straight in
all the way up to my wrists,
then lift them slowly out again,
letting the soap pieces fall one by one
between my fingers. Then,
I’d bring my palms to my nose,
inhale the scent of lavender and wild rose.

Kim June Johnson is a singer-songwriter, storyteller and poet currently living and working on Vancouver Island, Canada. When there’s no global pandemic, she tours with a cellist, performing house concerts and folk clubs; their shows often incorporate live poetry. A recent graduate of Simon Fraser University’s The Writer’s Studio, her poems have appeared in Prairie Fire, Room, CV2, and Arc Poetry Magazine. She is currently at work on a memoir and a collection of flash essays. She lives in a draughty house near a creek with her daughter and Bernese Mountain dog.