From Ho-hum to holy with a hairbrush

a poem for mothers and grandmothers.

It was evening, it was morning – an ordinary day.

The ho-hum, hum-drum

of breakfasts and backpacks.

The “too slow, hurry up -

Get dressed; move faster”

But, a brush through long hair

gets caught up in tangles.

And the whoosh,

-shoosh,

-shoosing sound

stops

when it catches the stick

-ick

-icky sound

of tangled, matted hair.

How many evenings? How many mornings have I brushed through her hair?

A hundred? A hundred times a hundred?

A daily fight against the chaotic mane

that sways wild and free

on jungle gyms and playground swings.

Or hangs happily, carefree

into cereal bowls

and jellied toast.

Or catches between

shoulders and jacket,

backpack and chair backs.

Until at long last, tossed upon evening’s pillow,

sleep invites her to dance,

to and fro, and across, and around her twin bed.

How many evenings? How many mornings have I rushed a brush through her hair?

From barely there, fine baby hair

to the now long locks of a girl, almost not.

I catch site of your profile as I brush through your hair.

The rose of your cheek,

the perk of your nose

and I wonder -

How many more evenings?

How many more mornings?

I am stopped, and savor this moment of the

whoosh,

-shoosh,

-shoosing sound

until it catches the stick

-ick

-icky sound

of tangled, matted hair.

A brush through long hair,

not ho-hum,

not hum-drum,

now only holy.

How many more times will this moment be mine -

to brush through the long locks of a girl, almost not -

to savor the ho-hum turned holy?