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.