My daughter and her young children are visiting in our home this week and as I watched her braid her daughter’s hair this morning I remembered something I had written when my daughter was a little girl…..

“Moments Relived”

I sat on the bed, brushing her long, light brown hair, my precious grandmother.  How she loved to have her hair brushed and how I loved doing that.  Hair that went all the way down one’s back was a novelty to me as a young girl.  As I brushed and braided, and unbraided, combed, and brushed again, I listened to Grandma tell story after story of growing up on the farm….the mules pulling the plow, her dog Fido, and her big brother Ed, whom she loved dearly.  I never tired of hearing the story, and the sound of her voice making it come alive.

I sat on the bed and brushed her short, dark hair, my precious mother.  It came out in clumps in my hands….something she couldn’t bear to do alone….a moment that desperately needed to be shared.  What would she think when she looked into the mirror?  I knew Mama was still beautiful, but would she know that?  Would the chemotherapy kill cancer cells like it killed her hair?  It’s so hard to understand a medicine that brings some sort of death to prevent another death!  Will I ever brush her hair again?

I sat on the bed and brushed her hair, my precious child.  She loved to have her hair braided into French braids.  I wonder why?  Was it because she looked so cute in those braids?  Or was it because her Grandma used to fix it that way?  I wonder what stories Mama used to tell her as she spent time brushing and braiding, unbraiding and brushing.  I’m glad Mama taught me how to do French braids before she died. I try, but my fingers just aren’t as quick and nimble with it all.  I keep at it though, with confidence and a smile, and a story or two.  How the braids turn out isn’t what is most important!

nk