peach soap

P and I were walking down the street in the Pearl District of Portland. We walked by a store called, "Urbane Zen," and in the window there was a bowl of soaps, that were so perfectly round it was hard to believe that they were man made. I remember soap my grandma had that was very similar; it was peach, but it was in the shape of a peach and smelled like a peach. My sister and I were in love with my grandmother's bathroom. She had a hutch over the toilet that had sliding doors. Behind the doors were bottles of nail polish in every possible shade of pink. On top of the hutch were bottles of perfume, the kind with the tube and the ball, that now remind me more of blood pressure machines--then though they were glamour, that you could spray on your neck and behind your ears. On the counter were shallow jars of loose powder and large, poofy applicators made of pink fuzz. The bathroom seemed like a place were movie stars got ready for their close ups. I guess we didn't notice the space full of make-up and nail polish, and creams for your face was shared with the washer and dryer, as well as the glass for my grandpa's teeth and his fixodent. The bathroom wasn't in a hotel with marble entry way--it was in a trailer though, a trailer in the middle of Muddy Valley, off of a gravel road on eighty acres of land my grandpa used for logging. When we smelled that peach soap though, held it to our little noses and felt it soft against the delicate fuzz of skin between our lips and our nose--well, it was exactly how we imagined Hollywood and glamour and beauty.