I was only five years old,
getting my hair pressed for the first time.
I heard my mother’s voice.
She was reading to me as she was pressing my hair.
Mama always called me “my-Esha”.
She was so kind a woman.
She still is.
All the people I knew as friends called me Esha.
My family did too.
Mama would wash my hair and then press it.
The pressing comb would get very hot.
The sides would singe with steam and heat from the pressing comb.
The back of my hair was my least favorite part to get pressed.
She knew it and we joked about it when she was threw fixing my hair.