Multiple braids equal multiple roots,
in the direction my fingers scoots.

Loose braids,
robust cornrow braids in a stack,
chanting all the way down my back.

A loose rope,
or a robust bridge.
You know which root to take….

Justine Louisy
Copyright © Justine Louisy 2016
All Rights Reserved

Torn out
Tightly yet intricately woven
Pulled up high
Half-dead
Twisted
Excessively washed, cleaned, and dried
Straightened
Fried
Surprised it hasn't all fallen out yet

Ah, I remember her well.

She used to roam the woods brandishing her scepter of sticks
Commanding the creatures of the forest
The blue jays loved her, all the animals loved her, but, especially those blue jays
They brought her gifts.
And accompanied her on all her adventures
And watched her from the branches
In return
She gave offerings of bread and warm milk
And wore their feathers in her hair
Oh my,
her hair was a wild mess
Sticks
Pebbles
Feathers
And Braids
And somehow
That wild tangled mess
Made me smile
She made everyone smile

She took a particular liking to me
I watched over her
but
in reality
she watched over me
Imagine that
a little girl
pep in her step
and sparkle in her eye
taking care of a scarred man like me

We had a trade
a weekly occurrence
A story for a story
A tale for a tale
She would whisper a story filled to the brim with
fairies and trolls
and trees with purple blossoms
and golden roots
I would hand her knowledge about the world

She saw the truth in people
called them flavors
said mine was a cup of hot chocolate
spiked
with peppermint
I once asked her what her truth is
asked her about her flavor
Frosting and moondust
she said
with a smile

Now don't look at me like that,
She had her flaws
Even the most magnificent paintings faded with time.
What happened you ask?
She grew up

And everything changed
The winds didn't carry the scent of honeysuckle
And the crickets never sang.

She cut her hair.
And her smile was guarded
Weighted down by a heavy stone.

The Bluejays observed solemnly from the dead tree branches
As she withered away

The forest no longer hummed
And the town never felt so lonely
Even I lost a piece of me
When she got on that train
Without a wave goodbye

Maybe one day
The creek will chuckle again
And she will come back and
Finish that story
About the king and his butterflies
And I will tell the tale
About the origin of the moon.

But, perhaps that is just an old man's wishful thinking.
~

She was light
Light that colored and filled the room
Her black skin glowed where ever she went
She was the sweetness in people's mouths
Her braids in the sun made an aura around her
Almost like she was an angel
Maybe she was

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When I was a little girl,
Mama always put my hair in two pigtail braids.
She'd separate it so one was on each shoulder,
and then gave me a finishing twirl.

Never have I ever thought of what the hair felt like.
From day one in science class, I was taught it was dead cells,
nothing more, nothing less.
Never have I ever thought of how it felt to be pulled so tight.

It's taken a few years, and I've long since grown out of the pigtail braids.
Now, I make them more fancy, a french braid or a fancy one to the side.
Maybe this is a lesson, that things only get pulled tighter and tighter with hidden rage and growing age.
Never have I ever known how fast a stressed and pulled heart fades.