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,