Flickering Shadows

On some nights, as I take a bath, my daddy burns candles and lights incense, and we turn off the lights. He sits on the toilet and softly strums his guitar, fiddling with the chords and strings as I hum a tune from the warm water.

We can't do it every night, because "it won't be special," he says. But on the nights when we do have a bath in the dark, with the sweet scent of smoke and the flickering shadows, and the music, I think I start to understand poetry and the beauty of everyday things.