I was five,
the last time
I combed my hair
I was always messy
always leaving it - casually

You, however
love dolls like the
one your mum bought
for your birthday

how you combed her hair
for every reason
you wanted a daughter,
so that when she grows,
her hair,
will form plaits
will weave
through the union of your fingers

But for now,
my hands have grown
accustomed combing
your thick black hair -
I mistook
for my child's

Now that you're gone
I comb my own
imagining its yours
all back to five.