I ask if I can wash your hair. You say, "Well sure", and sit down on the edge of the tub. I sit down next to you. In a state of grace, you steady yourself and lean, a frame that's still
no more than five foot two, a body that bore one girl and seven boys. I pour shampoo above your head with one hand, then with two, I lather up your hair, and rinse with more
warm water from a shower head. It spills over your crown, and down your ageless face. I lay a hand towel on your head, and rub the silver strands of your hair. You smile the way
you always did with your eyes, and I think how do roles reverse this fast right here, right now.