Tuesday February 12, 6 p.m. at Darvill’s Bookstore in Eastsound
Holly J. Hughes is a writing teacher, poet and essayist with a long-time interest in writing, nature and contemplative practice. She has taught writing workshops at Fishtrap, the Rainier Writers Workshop, and Edmonds “Write on the Sound,” as well as teaching at Edmonds Community College, where she co-directed the Convergence Writer’s Series.
Hughes and essayist Brenda Miller co-authored The Pen and the Bell: Mindful Writing in a Busy World. A former commercial salmon fisherman and mariner, she has spent 30 summers working in Alaska, most recently as a naturalist. She divides her time between Indianola and Chimacum, Washington.
The reading is free and open to the public, and will be followed by a spoken word open mic.
In 2012, Holly was a recipient of a grant from Artist Trust. Her Orcas Island reading will be a “Meet the Artist” event. She encourages anyone interested in applying for an Artist Trust grant to attend, and she will share her experience as well as any tips for applying.
Artist Trust’s Meet the Artist program is an integral component of the annual Artist Trust Fellowship program. Meet the Artist events bridge our artistic community with the diverse communities in Washington State, increasing awareness about the vital roles art and artists play in our culture. Find out more at Artist Trust
The Bath
The tub fills inch by inch,
as I kneel beside it, trail my fingers
in the bright braid of water.
Mom perches on the toilet seat,
entranced by the ritual until
she realizes the bath’s for her.
Oh no, she says, drawing her
three layers of shirts to her chest,
crossing her arms and legs.
Oh no, I couldn’t, she repeats,
brow furrowing, that look I now
recognize like an approaching squall.
I abandon reason, the hygiene argument,
promise a Hershey’s bar, if she will just,
please, take off her clothes. Oh no,
she repeats, her voice rising.
Meanwhile, the water is cooling.
I strip off my clothes, step into it,
let the warm water take me
completely, slipping down until
only my face shines up, a moon mask.
Mom stays with me, interested now
in this turn of events. I sit up.
Will you wash my back, Mom?
So much gone, but let this
still be there. She bends over
to dip the washcloth in the still
warm water, squeezes it,
lets it dribble down my back,
leans over to rub the butter pat
of soap, swiping each armpit,
then rinses off the suds with long
practiced strokes. I turn around
to thank her, catch her smiling,
lips pursed, humming,
still a mother with a daughter
whose back needs washing.
