Memory

Memory

It was 2am…
this time I heard it clearly,
the crying in the bathroom.
It was coming rhythmically
as if someone is playing
a low tune with a harmonica.

With a shudder,
I sat on the bed,
watching the bathroom door
in the semidarkness,
thinking that I am alone
in this big old house.

Again came the sound,
the sad wailing of what
I thought is a child,
and that sound was
vaguely familiar.

Then something
broke in me, and
the memory erupted
in my no longer
living sense.

I recognized my own
gasped crying of
twenty years ago,
when I drowned in
that bathtub made of
Chinese porcelain.

Where am I now?