Braiding My Daughter's Hair


This is what we 
waited for:
a doll of flesh and blood
to rearrange, recreate, 
manipulate.

Interweaving silken strands
my palms come alive with 
memories
performing an ancient ritual.

The head on the other end
is 
unaware of her story--
thinks it's just a hairdo.

Rhoda, whose hair hung 
loose
tugs harshly at my scalp
impatient with tangles and knots.

Behind 
her stands the ghost of Lily
who died too young 
to teach the art of 
braiding.

Bema looms behind the ghost
magnificent silver braids
wound 
round and round her head.

This is what we waited for:
my fingers fly, 
over and through,
gratified.