Before the days my daughter had aged into an adult,
I remember the nights when I used to sit in the living
room couch pulling her long silky hair back towards me
and slowly combing it like a porcelain doll, untangling the
few strands and greasing it down to a sleek finishing touch.
I’d soon follow using my slender fingers to make knots one
strand after the other, as my daughter would scream out in
agony, That hurts! Let take a break!  I’d stare at her for a few
seconds the way my mom used to gaze at me when she was
braiding my hair, then I’d say, Hush up child, stop being so
tender headed, and I’d ease right back into plaiting her hair,
letting my mind seep into the technique and the rhythm of
the constant rotation, how each element seemed to create
a harmonizing rhyme sinking inside my soul, how the twisting
and turning reminded me of the memories I used to share with
my mother, the way she’d brush my ***** hair and gel it down
until it was straight, the way she’d open up with a big smile, I love you my precious baby, her sparkling teeth stamped on the center of my chest.  I’d grin and reply, I love you too mom, like it would be this way forever.   Now, as I continue tying the knots together, I see so much beauty and uniqueness in me within my darling daughter, how the simple touch of braiding hair can birth a beautiful blossom.