Every Sunday morning
we children 
sat on the floor 
as mother rubbed
our bare bodies
and massaged
our heads
with sesame oil.

We were allowed
to bask in the sun
for about ten minutes
when water was heated
on a stove 
poured into buckets, 
then emptied on our heads
as we blew soap bubbles.

This weekly ritual
guaranteed 
to make us glisten with health,
stopped 
when we turned eight 
and were shooed
into geyser-fitted bathrooms
with shampoo sachets.

Now on a massage board,
overcharged
for an aromatic oil package,
a synapse connects.
Mother’s impatience
was the exfoliating scrub
that made us grow
resilient skins.