Threads of Hair

With threads of your hair, you stitched up my soul, Each strand a tether to moments unspoken. I’d sit cross-legged, the floor cool beneath us, While your hands worked through my tangles, Carrying stories I was too young to know. The oil, warm and thick, glistened in your palm— Jasmine, sharp and sweet, filled the air between us. Your fingers moved with a rhythm That could quiet storms inside my chest, Undoing knots I didn’t even know were there. Then it was my turn. I’d clumsily part your hair, Tiny fingers grazing your scalp. I didn’t yet know the weight your strands carried— Years of holding everything together When the world seemed ready to fray. I’d pour too much oil, you’d laugh softly, And somehow, I’d feel like I belonged. We weren’t just fixing hair; we were mending silence, Threading love into the quiet spaces. Now, when I oil my own hair, I can feel it— The echo of your hands, the weight of your care. With threads of your hair, you stitched up my soul, And left me something I never needed to ask for.