Artisan Soap Bar

At first you were a joke, a gag-gift from my sister.

I gave you meaning. Put you on display in my home, announced to everyone that you were part of my identity

For years

I identified with you. Sometimes it hurt to look at, but mostly I was numb to it. You made me chuckle a bit too.

A self-deprecating joke I insisted on telling. Over. And over again.

Until last week, while I was cleaning out my apartment. I hadn’t seen you in months, I wasn’t sure if I missed you or not. I was surprised by how old and worn you looked. After a moment’s hesitation I threw you in my bag.

Today, we meet again. You catch my eye, and I pull you from the luggage decisively. Ripping off your label, I watch the crumpled “middle child” logo disappear into the trash can.

With the tattered, faded packaging removed, I see your smooth, transparent form. I can’t help but feel a little surprised by how nice you look, how good you smell.

I turn the shower on and undress. Climbing in with you in my grasp, I massage you into my washcloth. You lather beautifully and glisten in the water. “This is what I was made for,” I hear you whisper.

You are not your packaging. It doesn’t have a thing to do with your true purpose.

Im sorry I was distracted by your label for so long,

I’ve been hung up on mine as well.