My Mother's Hair
I was once so fond
Of the gray-streaked
Locks cascading
Down her frail back,
Growing so long
In her dying days.
I visited her every day
In the hospital.
The sterile background,
White linen,
And dingy food tray,
Dietary supplements
And nurses’ reminders.
After school,
I braided her hair,
Fingertips brushing
Scalp, climbing up
And down the rope,
Fashioning frizzed
Ends into plaits.
Its soft thickness
Caressing my cheek,
Smelling of flowers
And sweet oils
As she uttered
"I love you"
For the last time.
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