Niecy LoCricchio
From Ho-hum to holy with a hairbrush
Updated: Mar 12, 2019
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,