Every so often, I still taste soap from all those years ago when my mom would wash my mouth out for talking dirty.
The taste reminds me there’s a fine line between what is acceptable and unacceptable, and how that fine line can sometimes come in the form of Irish Spring or Dove.
In her own way, my mom did me a favor. At least I didn’t grow up sounding like a drunken sailor with Tourette’s.
To honor my mom, I keep a sweet-talking spot beneath my tongue.
There, you can experience the dulcet tones of rain on a red wheelbarrow as words sounding like Mother Theresa crossed with a Hallmark card resonate softly.
As for the rest of my mouth, that’s another story.
Soap or no soap, I still occasionally curse like an angry breeze unable to write a dissertation on how to stay still and be here now.